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Joel;    A  Boy  of  Galilee 

In  the   Desert   of  Waiting 

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<30a 


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71. 
&4§- 

•/  ^  ^kv 


Sutfjor  of 

littlt  Colonri,"  "  £foo  l.«ttlt 
of  Stntucks,"  rtt. 


ttf)  a  Jrontiaptftf  bg 

(Ernest  Joebrrp 


Boston 


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Copyright,  1900,  1901 
BY  E.  S.  BARNETT 


Copyright, 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
All  rights  reserved 


Seventh  Impression 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

&  ©ear  ©ft 

WHOSE  CHEERFUL   OPTIMISM   AND   SUNNY   FAITH    HAVE 
SWEETENED   LIFE   FOR   ALL  WHO   KNOW   HIM 


2130726 


Hsa  IHolmes 

or 

Ht  tbe  Cro06*roat>0 
Chapter  1 


THERE  is  no  place  where  men 
learn  each  other's  little  peculiari- 
ties more  thoroughly  than  in  the 
group  usually  to  be  found  around  the 
stove  in  a  country  store.  Such  ac- 
quaintance may  be  of  slow  growth, 
like  the  oak's,  but  it  is  just  as  sure. 
Each  year  is  bound  to  add  another  ring 
to  one's  knowledge  of  his  neighbours 
if  he  lounges  with  them,  as  man  and 
boy,  through  the  Saturday  afternoons 
of  a  score  of  winters. 

A   boy  learns   more   there   than   he 

can  be  taught  in  schools.     It  may  be 

he  is  only  a  tow-headed,  freckle-faced 

little  fellow   of  eight   when   he   rides 

9 


Hsa  Holmes 


over  to  the  cross-roads  store  for  the 
first  time  by  himself.  Too  timid  to 
push  into  the  circle  around  the  fire,  he 
stands  shivering  on  the  outskirts,  look- 
ing about  him  with  the  alertness  of  a 
scared  rabbit,  until  the  storekeeper 
fills  his  kerosene  can  and  thrusts  the 
weekly  mail  into  his  red  mittens. 
Then  some  man  covers  him  with 
confusion  by  informing  the  crowd  that 
"that  little  chap  is  Perkins's  oldest," 
and  he  scurries  away  out  of  the  embar- 
rassing focus  of  the  public  eye. 

But  the  next  time  he  is  sent  on  the 
family  errands  he  stays  longer  and 
carries  away  more.  Perched  on  the 
counter,  with  his  heels  dangling  over 
a  nail  keg,  while  he  waits  for  the  be- 
lated mail  train,  he  hears  for  the  first 
time  how  the  government  ought  to  be 
run,  why  it  is  that  the  country  is  going 
to  the  dogs,  and  what  will  make 
10 


at  tbc 


hens  lay  in  cold  weather.  Added  to 
this  general  information,  he  slowly 
gathers  the  belief  that  these  men 
know  everything  in  the  world  worth 
knowing,  and  that  their  decisions  on 
any  subject  settle  the  matter  for  all 
time. 

He  may  have  cause  to  change  his 
opinion  later  on,  when  his  sapling  ac- 
quaintance has  gained  larger  girth ; 
when  he  has  loafed  with  them, 
smoked  with  them,  swapped  lies  and 
spun  yarns,  argued  through  a  decade 
of  stormy  election  times,  and  talked 
threadbare  every  subject  under  the  sun. 
But  now,  in  his  callow  judgment,  he 
is  listening  to  the  wit  and  wisdom  of 
the  nation.  Now,  as  he  looks  around 
the  overflowing  room,  where  butter 
firkins  crowd  the  calicoes  and  crock- 
ery, and  where  hams  and  saddles  swing 
sociably  from  the  same  rafter,  as  far  as 
ii 


Hsa  Holmce 


his  knowledge  goes,  this  is  the  only 
store  in  the  universe. 

Some  wonder  rises  in  his  childish 
brain  as  he  counts  the  boxes  of  axle- 
grease  and  the  rows  of  shining  new 
pitchforks,  as  to  where  all  the  people 
live  who  are  to  use  so  many  things. 
He  has  yet  to  learn  that  this  one  little 
store  that  is  such  a  marvel  to  him  is 
only  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  and  that  he 
may  travel  the  width  of  the  continent, 
meeting  at  nearly  every  mile-post  that 
familiar  mixture  of  odours  —  coal  oil, 
mackerel,  roasted  coffee,  and  pickle 
brine.  And  a  familiar  group  of  men, 
discussing  the  same  old  subjects  in  the 
same  old  way,  will  greet  him  at  every 
such  booth  he  passes  on  his  pilgrimage 
through  Vanity  Fair. 

Probably  in  after  years  Perkins's 
oldest  will  never  realise  how  much  of 
his  early  education  has  been  acquired 
12 


at  tbe  Cros^roafce 


at  that  Saturday  afternoon  loafing-place, 
but  he  will  often  find  himself  looking 
at  things  with  the  same  squint  with 
which  he  learned  to  view  them 
through  'Squire  Dobbs's  short-sighted 
spectacles.  Many  a  time  he  will  find 
that  he  has  been  unconsciously  warped 
by  the  prejudices  he  heard  expressed 
there,  and  that  his  opinions  of  life  in 
general  and  men  in  particular  are  the 
outgrowth  of  those  early  conversations 
which  gave  him  the  creed  of  his  boy- 
hood. 

"  Them  blamed  Yankees  ! "  exclaims 
one  of  these  neighbourhood  orators, 
tilting  his  chair  back  against  the 
counter,  and  taking  a  vicious  bite  at 
his  plug  of  tobacco.  "  They  don't 
know  no  better  than  to  eat  cold  bread 
the  year  'round !  "  And  the  boy,  ac- 
cepting the  statement  unquestioningly, 
stores  away  in  his  memory  not  only 
13 


H0a  Holmes 


the  remark,  but  all  the  weighty  em- 
phasis of  disgust  which  accompanied 
the  remark  in  the  spitting  of  a  mouth- 
ful of  tobacco  juice.  Henceforth  his 
idea  of  the  menu  north  of  the  Mason 
and  Dixon  line  is  that  it  resembles  the 
bill  of  fare  of  a  penitentiary,  and  he 
feels  that  there  is  something  cold- 
blooded and  peculiar  about  a  people 
not  brought  up  on  a  piping  hot  diet  of 
hoe-cake  and  beaten  biscuit. 

In  the  same  way  the  lad  whose 
opinions  are  being  moulded  in  some 
little  corner  grocery  of  a  New  England 
village,  or  out  where  the  roads  cross  on 
the  Western  prairie,  receives  his  preju- 
dices. It  may  be  years  before  he  finds 
out  for  himself  that  the  land  of  Boone 
is  not  fenced  with  whiskey  jugs  and 
feuds,  and  that  the  cap-sheaf  on 
every  shock  of  wheat  in  its  domain  is 
not  a  Winchester  rifle. 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roat>0 


But  these  prejudices,  popular  at  local 
cross-roads,  are  only  the  side  lines  of 
which  every  section  carries  its  own 
specialty.  When  it  comes  to  staple 
articles,  dear  to  the  American  heart 
and  essential  to  its  liberty  and  progress, 
their  standard  of  value  is  the  same  the 
country  over. 

One  useful  lesson  the  youthful 
lounger  may  learn  here,  if  he  can 
learn  it  anywhere,  and  that  is  to  be  a 
shrewd  reader  of  men  and  motives. 
Since  staple  characteristics  in  human 
nature  are  repeated  everywhere,  like 
staple  dry  goods  and  groceries,  a  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  the  group  around 
the  stove  will  be  a  useful  guide  to 
Perkins's  oldest  in  forming  acquaint- 
ances later  in  life. 

Long  after  he  has  left  the  little 
hamlet  and  grown  gray  with  the  ex- 
periences of  the  metropolis,  he  will 
15 


H0a  Holmes 


run  across  some  queer  Dick  whose 
familiar  personality  puzzles  him.  As 
he  muses  over  his  evening  pipe,  sud- 
denly out  of  the  smoke  wreaths  will 
spring  the  face  of  some  old  codger 
who  aired  his  wisdom  in  the  village 
store,  and  he  will  recognise  the  like- 
ness between  the  two  as  quickly  as  he 
would  between  two  cans  of  leaf  lard 
bearing  the  same  brand. 

But  Perkins's  oldest  is  only  in  the 
primer  of  his  cross-roads  curriculum 
now,  and  these  are  some  of  the  lessons 
he  is  learning  as  he  edges  up  to  the 
group  around  the  fire.  On  the  day 
before  Thanksgiving,  for  instance,  he 
was  curled  up  on  a  box  of  soap  behind 
the  chair  of  old  Asa  Holmes  —  Miller 
Holmes  everybody  calls  him,  because 
for  nearly  half  a  century  his  water-mill 
ground  out  the  grist  of  all  that  section 
of  country.  He  is  retired  now ;  gave 
16 


Ht  tbe  <Tro00*roat>0 


up  his  business  to  his  grandsons.  They 
carry  it  on  in  another  place  with  steam 
and  modern  machinery,  and  he  is  laid 
on  the  shelf.  But  he  isn't  a  back 
number,  even  if  his  old  deserted  mill 
is.  It  is  his  boast  that  now  he  has 
nothing  else  to  do,  he  not  only  keeps 
up  with  the  times,  but  ahead  of  them. 

Everybody  goes  to  him  for  advice ; 
everybody  looks  up  to  him  as  they  do 
to  a  hardy  old  forest  tree  that's  lived 
through  all  sorts  of  hurricanes,  but  has 
stood  to  the  last,  sturdy  of  limb,  and 
sound  to  the  core.  He  is  as  sweet  and 
mellow  as  a  winter  apple,  ripened  in 
the  sun,  and  that's  why  everybody  likes 
to  have  him  around.  You  don't  see 
many  old  men  like  that.  Their  troubles 
sour  them. 

Well,  this  day  before  Thanksgiving 
the  old  miller  was  in  his  usual  place  at 
the  store,  and  as  usual  it  was  he  who 
17 


Hsa  Holmes 


was  giving  the  cheerful  turn  to  the 
conversation.  Some  of  the  men  were 
feeling  sore  over  the  recent  election ; 
some  had  not  prospered  as  they  had 
hoped  with  their  crops,  and  were  ex- 
periencing the  pinch  of  hard  times  and 
sickness  in  their  homes.  Still  there 
was  a  holiday  feeling  in  the  atmos- 
phere. Frequent  calls  for  nutmeg, 
and  sage,  and  cinnamon,  left  the  air 
spicy  with  prophecies  of  the  morrow's 
dinner. 

The  farmers  had  settled  down  for  a 
friendly  talk,  with  the  comfortable 
sense  that  the  crops  were  harvested, 
the  wood  piled  away  for  the  winter, 
and  a  snug,  warm  shelter  provided  for 
the  cattle.  It  was  good  to  see  the  hard 
lines  relax  in  the  weather-beaten  faces, 
in  the  warmth  of  that  genial  comrade- 
ship. Even  the  gruffest  were  beginning 
to  thaw  a  little,  when  the  door  opened, 
18 


at  tbe  Cross^roafcs 


and  Bud  Hines  slouched  in.    The  spirits 
of  the  crowd  went  down  ten  degrees. 

Not  that  he  said  anything  ;  only  gave 
a  gloomy  nod  by  way  of  greeting  as  he 
dropped  into  a  chair.  But  his  whole 
appearance  said  it  for  him ;  spoke  in 
the  droop  of  his  shoulders,  and  the 
droop  of  his  hat  brim,  and  the  droop 
of  his  mouth  at  the  corners.  He 
looked  as  if  he  might  have  sat  for  the 
picture  of  the  man  in  the  "  Biglow 
Papers,"  when  he  said : 

"  Sometimes  my  innard  vane  pints  east  for  weeks 

together, 

My  natur'  gits  all  goose-flesh,  an'  my  sins 
Come  drizzlin'  on  my  conscience  sharp  ez  pins." 

The  miller  greeted  him  with  the 
twinkle  in  his  eye  that  eighty  years 
and  more  have  never  been  able  to  dim  ; 
and  Perkins's  oldest  had  his  first  meet- 
ing with  the  man  who  always  finds  a 
19 


Hsa  Holmes 


screw  loose  in  everything.  Nothing 
was  right  with  Bud  Hines.  One  of 
his  horses  had  gone  lame,  and  his  best 
heifer  had  foundered,  and  there  was 
rust  in  his  wheat.  He  didn't  have  any 
heart  to  keep  Thanksgiving,  and  he 
didn't  see  how  anybody  else  could, 
with  the  bottom  dropped  clean  out  of 
the  markets  and  the  new  road  tax  so 
high.  For  his  part  he  thought  that 
everything  was  on  its  last  legs,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  long  till  all  the  Powers 
were  at  war,  and  prices  would  go  up 
till  a  poor  man  simply  couldn't  live. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  be  affected 
more  or  less  by  his  gloomy  forebod- 
ings, and  the  old  miller,  looking  around 
on  the  listening  faces,  saw  them  settling 
back  in  their  old  discouraged  lines. 
Clasping  his  hands  more  firmly  over 
the  top  of  his  cane,  he  exclaimed : 
"  Now  look  here,  Bud  Hines,  I'm 
20 


Ht  tbe  Cro00-«roa&0 


going  to  give  you  a  proverb  that  was 
made  on  purpose  for  such  a  poor,  weak- 
kneed  Mr.  Ready-to-halt  as  you  are : 
'  Never  be  discouraged,  and  never  be  a 
discourager  ! '  If  you  can't  live  up  to 
the  first  part,  you  certainly  can  to  the 
second.  No  matter  how  hard  things 
go  with  you,  you've  no  right  to  run 
around  throwing  cold  water  on  other 
people.  What  if  your  horse  has  gone 
lame  ?  You've  got  a  span  of  mules 
that  can  outpull  my  yoke  of  oxen 
any  day.  One  heifer  oughtn't  to  send 
a  man  into  mourning  the  rest  of  his 
days,  and  it  would  be  more  fitting  to 
be  thankful  over  your  good  tobacco 
crop  than  to  groan  over  the  failure  of 
your  wheat.  More  fitting  to  the  sea- 
son. As  for  the  rest  of  the  things 
you're  worrying  over,  why,  man,  they 
haven't  happened  yet,  and  maybe  never 
will.  My  old  grandad  used  to  say  to 

21 


Hsa  Holmes 


me  when  I  was  a  lad,  '  Never  cross 
your  bridge  till  you  come  to  it,  Asa,' 
and  I've  proved  the  wisdom  of  that 
saying  many  a  time.  Suppose'n  you 
put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it." 

If  Perkins's  oldest  learns  no  other 
lesson  this  year  than  to  put  those  two 
proverbs  into  practice,  he  will  have 
had  a  valuable  education.  How  many 
Thanksgivings  they  will  help  to  make 
for  him !  How  many  problems  and 
perplexities  they  will  solve ! 

"  Never  be  discouraged ;  never  be  a 
discourager  !  Don't  cross  your  bridge 
until  you  come  to  it !  "  It  is  a  philos- 
ophy that  will  do  away  with  half  the 
ills  which  flesh  imagines  it  is  heir  to. 

Thanksgiving  Day !  How  much 
more  it  means  to  the  old  miller  than 
to  the  little  fellow  beside  him  on  the 
soap  box  !  To  the  child  it  is  only  a 
feast  day ;  to  the  old  man  it  is  a  festi- 

22 


at  tbe 


val  that  links  him  to  a  lifetime  of  sacred 
memories. 

"  Five  and  eighty  years,"  he  says,  mu- 
singly, resting  his  chin  on  the  wrinkled 
hands  that  clasp  the  head  of  his  cane. 
A  silence  falls  on  the  group  around  the 
stove,  and  through  the  cracked  door 
the  red  firelight  shines  out  on  thought- 
ful faces. 

"  It's  a  long  time ;  five  and  eighty 
years,"  he  repeats,  "  and  every  one  of 
them  crowned  with  a  Thanksgiving. 
Boys,"  lifting  his  head  and  looking 
around  him,  "  you've  got  a  good  bit 
of  pike  to  travel  over  yet  before  you 
get  as  far  as  I've  gone,  and  some  of  you 
are  already  half  fagged  out  and  begin- 
ning to  wonder  if  it's  all  worth  while 
-  Bud,  here,  for  instance.  I'd  like  to 
give  you  all  a  word  of  encouragement. 

"Looking  back,  I  can  see  that  I've 
had  as  many  ups  and  downs  as  any  of 
23 


Holmes 


you,  and  more  than  your  share  of  work 
and  trouble,  for  I've  lived  longer,  and 
nearly  all  the  years  are  marked  with 
graves.  Seems  to  me  that  lately  I've 
had  to  leave  a  new  grave  behind  me  at 
every  mile-stone,  till  now  I'm  jogging 
on  all  alone.  Family  gone,  old  neigh- 
bours gone,  old  friends  —  I'm  the  last 
of  the  old  set.  But,  still,  when  all  is 
said  and  done,  I  haven't  lost  heart,  for 
'  I've  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a 
lifetime,  and  all  was  for  best.' 

"  When  I  was  milling  down  there  on 
Bear  Creek  you'd  'a*  thought  I  was  a 
fool  if  I  hadn't  taken  my  rightful  toll 
out  of  every  bushel  of  grist  that  ran 
through  my  hopper,  and  sometimes  I 
think  that  the  Almighty  must  feel  that 
way  about  us  when  we  go  on  grinding 
and  grinding,  and  never  stopping  to  count 
up  our  share  of  the  profit  and  pleasure 
and  be  thankful  over  it.  I  believe  that 
24 


at  tbe  Cro0s*roat>0 


no  matter  what  life  pours  into  our  hop- 
per, we  are  to  grind  some  toll  of  good 
out  of  it  for  ourselves,  and  as  long  as  a 
man  does  his  part  toward  producing 
something  for  the  world's  good,  some 
kind  of  bread  for  its  various  needs,  he 
will  never  go  hungry  himself. 

"And  I  believe  more  than  that. 
You've  heard  people  compare  old  age 
to  a  harvest  field,  and  talk  about  the 
autumn  of  life  with  its  ripened  corn 
waiting  for  the  reaper  Death,  and  all 
that,  and  speak  about  the  'harvest 
home/  as  if  it  were  the  glorious  end 
of  everything.  But  it  never  did  strike 
me  that  way,  boys.  The  best  comes 
after  the  harvesting,  when  the  wheat 
is  turned  into  flour  and  the  flour  into 
bread,  and  the  full,  wholesome  loaves  go 
to  make  up  blood  and  muscle  and  brain. 
That's  giving  it  a  sort  of  immortality, 
you  might  say,  raising  it  into  a  higher 
25 


H0a  Holmes 


order  of  life.  And  it's  the  same  with 
a  man.  His  old  age  is  just  a  ripening 
for  something  better  a  little  further  on. 
All  that  we  go  through  with  here  isn't 
for  nothing,  and  at  eighty-five,  when 
it  looks  as  if  a  man  had  come  to  the 
stepping-ofF  place,  I've  come  to  believe 
that  '  the  best  is  yet  to  be.'  " 

There  is  a  stir  around  the  door,  and 
the  old  miller  looks  around  inquiringly. 
The  mail  has  come  in,  and  he  rises 
slowly  to  get  his  weekly  paper.  Per- 
kins's oldest,  waiting  his  turn  in  front 
of  the  little  case  of  pigeonholes,  eyes 
the  old  man  with  wondering  side 
glances.  He  has  not  understood  more 
than  half  of  what  he  has  heard,  but  he 
is  vaguely  conscious  that  something  is 
speaking  to  him  now,  as  he  looks  into 
the  tranquil  old  face.  It  is  the  miller's 
past  that  is  calling  to  him ;  all  those 
honest,  hard-working  years  that  show 
26 


Ht  tbe  <Tro00*roat>$ 


themselves  in  the  bent  form  and 
wrinkled  hands;  the  serene  peaceful- 
ness  that  bespeaks  a  clear  conscience ; 
the  big,  sunny  nature  that  looks  out 
of  those  aged  eyes ;  and  above  all  the 
great  hopefulness  that  makes  his  days  a 
perpetual  Thanksgiving. 

The  mute  eloquence  of  an  unspoken 
invitation  thrills  the  child's  heart,  he 
knows  not  why : 

"  Grow  old  along  with  me  j 
The  best  is  yet  to  be !  " 

It  is  the  greatest  lesson  that  Perkins's 
oldest  can  ever  learn. 


27 


Hsa  Holmes 


Cbapter  HI 


ONE  would  have  known  that  it 
was  the  day  before  Christmas 
at  the  Cross-Roads  store,  even 
if  the  big  life  insurance  calendar  over 
the  desk  had  not  proclaimed  the  fact 
in  bold  red  figures.  An  unwonted 
bustle  pervaded  the  place.  Rows  of 
plump,  dressed  turkeys  hung  outside 
the  door,  and  on  the  end  of  the  coun- 
ter where  the  pyramid  of  canned  to- 
matoes was  usually  stacked,  a  little 
evergreen  tree  stood  in  a  brave  array 
of  tinsel  and  tiny  Christmas  tapers. 

It  was  only  an  advertisement.  No 
one  might  hope  to  be  the  proud  pos- 
sessor of  the  Noah's  ark  lodged  in  its 
branches,  or  of  the  cheap  toys  and 
candy  rings  dangling  from  every  limb, 
unless  he  had  the  necessary  pennies. 
28 


Ht  tbc 


Still,  every  child  who  passed  it  eyed  it 
with  such  wistful  glances  that  the  little 
rubber  Santa  Claus  at  the  base  must 
have  felt  his  elastic  heart  stretch  almost 
to  bursting. 

Above  the  familiar  odour  of  coal-oil 
and  mackerel,  new  leather,  roasted 
coffee  and  pickle  brine,  rose  the  holi- 
day fragrance  of  cedar  and  oranges. 

"  Makes  me  think  of  when  I  was  a 
kid,"  said  a  drummer  who  had  been 
joking  with  the  men  around  the  stove, 
trying  to  kill  time  while  he  waited  for 
the  train  that  was  to  take  him  home 
for  Christmas.  "  There's  nothing  like 
that  smell  of  cedar  and  oranges  to  res- 
urrect the  boy  in  a  man.  It  puts  me 
straight  back  into  knickerbockers  again, 
among  a  whole  grove  of  early  Christ- 
mas trees.  I'll  never  forget  the  way  I 
felt  when  I  picked  my  first  pair  of 
skates  off  one  of  them.  A  house  and 
29 


Hsa  Holmes 


lot    wouldn't    give    me    such   a   thrill 
now." 

"  Aw,  I  don't  believe  Christmas  is  at 
all  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be,"  said  a 
voice  from  behind  the  stove,  in  such 
a  gloomy  tone  that  a  knowing  smile 
passed  around  the  circle. 

"  Bet  on  you,  Bud  Hines,  for  findin' 
trouble,  every  time,"  laughed  the  store- 
keeper. "  Why,  Bud,  there  ain't  no 
screw  loose  in  Christmas,  is  there  ?  " 

"Well,  there  just  is!"  snapped  the 
man,  resenting  the  laugh.  "  It  comes 
too  often  for  one  thing.  I  just  wish 
it  had  happened  on  leap-year,  the 
twenty-ninth  of  February.  It  would 
be  a  heap  less  expensive  having  it  just 
once  in  four  years.  Seems  to  me  we're 
always  treading  on  its  heels.  My  old 
woman  hardly  gets  done  knitting  tidies 
for  one  Christmas  till  she's  hard  at  it 
for  another. 

30 


at  tbe  Cros^roabs 


"  Anyhow,  Christmas  never  meas- 
ures up  to  what  you  think  it's  a-going 
to  —  not  by  a  jug-full.  Sure  as  you 
get  your  heart  set  on  a  patent  nail- 
puller  or  a  pair  of  fur  gloves  —  some- 
thing that'll  do  you  some  good --your 
wife  gives  you  a  carpet  sweeper,  or 
an  alarm-clock  that  rattles  you  out  an 
hour  too  early  every  morning." 

The  drummer  led  the  uproarious 
laughter  that  followed.  They  were 
ready  to  laugh  at  anything  in  this  sea- 
son of  good  cheer,  and  the  drummer's 
vociferous  merriment  was  irresistible. 
He  slapped  the  speaker  on  the  back, 
adding  jokingly,  "  That's  one  thing 
Job  never  had  to  put  up,  did  he,  part- 
ner !  He  nearly  lost  his  reputation  for 
politeness  over  the  misfit  advice  he 
didn't  want.  But  there's  no  telling 
what  he'd  have  done  with  misfit  Christ- 
mas gifts.  It  would  take  a  star  actor 


Hsa  1Holme0 


to  play  the  grateful  for  some  of  the 
things  people  find  in  their  stockings. 
For  instance,  to  have  a  fond  female 
relative  give  you  a  shaving  outfit,  when 
you  wear  a  full  beard." 

"  You  bet  your  life,"  answered  the 
store-keeper  feelingly.  "  Now,  if  Santa 
Claus  wasn't  a  fake  —  " 

"  Hist !  "  said  the  drummer,  with  a 
significant  glance  toward  a  small  boy, 
perched  on  a  soap-box  in  their  midst, 
listening  open-mouthed  to  every  word. 
"  I've  children  myself,  and  I'd  punch 
anybody's  head  who  would  shake  their 
faith  in  Santy.  It's  one  of  the  rosy 
backgrounds  of  childhood,  in  my  opin- 
ion, and  I've  got  a  heap  of  happiness 
out  of  it  since  I  was  a  kid,  too,  look- 
ing back  and  recollecting." 

It  was  very  little  happiness  that  the 
boy  on  the  soap-box  was  getting  out 
of  anything,  that  gray  December  after- 
32 


at  tbe  Cro00>*roafc0 


noon.  He  was  weighed  down  with  a 
feeling  of  age  and  responsibility  that 
bore  heavily  on  his  eight-year-old 
shoulders.  He  had  long  felt  the  strain 
of  his  position,  as  pattern  to  the  house 
of  Perkins,  being  the  oldest  of  five. 
Now  there  was  another  one,  and  to  be 
counted  as  the  oldest  of  six  pushed 
him  almost  to  the  verge  of  gray  hairs. 
There  was  another  reason  for  his 
tear-stained  face.  He  had  been  disil- 
lusioned. Only  that  noon,  his  own 
mother  had  done  that  for  which  the 
drummer  would  have  punched  any 
one's  head,  had  it  been  done  to  his 
children.  "  We're  too  poor,  Sammy. 
There  can't  be  any  Christmas  at  our 
house  this  year,"  she  had  said,  fretfully, 
as  she  stopped  the  noisy  driving  of 
nails  into  the  chimney,  on  which  he 
contemplated  hanging  the  fraternal 
stockings.  To  his  astonished  "  Why  ? " 

33 


Hsa  Holmes 


she  had  replied  with  a  few  blunt  truths 
that  sent  him  out  from  her  presence, 
shorn  of  all  his  childish  hopefulness  as 
completely  as  Samson  was  shorn  of  his 
strength. 

There  had  been  a  sorry  half-hour  in 
the  hay-mow,  where  he  snuffled  over 
his  shattered  faith  alone,  and  from 
whence  he  went  out,  a  hardened  little 
skeptic,  to  readjust  himself  to  a  cold 
and  Santa  Clausless  world.  The  only 
glimmer  of  comfort  he  had  had  since 
was  when  the  drummer,  with  a  friendly 
wink,  slipped  a  nickel  into  his  hand. 
But  even  that  added  to  his  weight  of 
responsibility.  He  dropped  it  back 
and  forth  from  one  little  red  mitten  to 
another,  with  two  impulses  strong  upon 
him.  The  first  was  to  spend  it  for  six 
striped  sticks  of  peppermint  candy,  one 
for  each  stocking,  and  thus  compel 
Christmas  to  come  to  the  house  of 
34 


Ht  tbe  Cross^roafcs 


Perkins.  The  other  was  to  buy  one 
orange  and  go  off  in  a  corner  and  suck 
it  all  by  himself.  He  felt  that  fate 
owed  him  that  much  of  a  reparation 
for  his  disappointment.  He  was  in 
the  midst  of  this  inward  debate  when 
a  new  voice  joined  the  discussion 
around  the  stove.  It  came  from  Cy 
Akers. 

"  Well,  /  think  it's  downright  sinful 
to  stuff  a  child  with  such  notions. 
You  may  call  'em  fairy-tales  all  you 
like,  but  it's  nothing  more  or  less  than 
a  pack  of  lies.  The  idea  of  a  Christian 
payrent  sitting  up  and  telling  his  im- 
mortal child  that  a  big  fat  man  in 
furs  will  drive  through  the  air  to-night 
in  a  reindeer  sleigh  right  over  the  roofs 
and  squeeze  himself  down  a  lot  of 
sooty  chimneys,  with  a  bag  of  gim- 
cracks  on  his  back  —  it's  all  fol-de- 
rol !  I  never  could  see  how  any 
35 


Hsa  Holmes 


intelligent  young  one  could  believe  it. 
I  never  did.  But  that's  one  thing  about 
me,  as  the  poet  says,  '  If  I've  one  pecool- 
iar  feature  it's  a  nose  that  won't  be 
led.'  I  never  could  be  made  to  take 
stock  in  any  such  nonsense,  even  as  a 
boy.  I'll  leave  it  to  Mr.  Asa  Holmes, 
here,  if  it  isn't  wrong  to  be  putting 
such  ideas  into  the  youth  of  our  land." 

The  old  miller  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  short  white  hair  and  looked  around. 
His  smile  was  wholesome  as  it  was 
genial.  He  was  used  to  being  called 
in  judgment  on  these  neighbourhood 
discussions,  and  he  spoke  with  the  air 
of  one  who  felt  that  his  words  carried 
weight : 

"You're  putting  it  pretty  strong,  Cy," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh,  and  then  a  tender, 
reminiscent  light  gleamed  in  his  old 
eyes. 

"You  see  it's  this  way  with  me, 
36 


at  tbe 


boys.  We  never  heard  any  of  these 
things  when  I  was  a  lad.  It's  plain 
facts  in  a  pioneer  cabin,  you  know. 
Father  taught  us  about  Christmas  in 
the  plain  words  that  he  found  set  down 
in  the  Gospels,  and  I  told  it  the  same 
way  to  my  boys.  When  my  first  little 
grandson  came  back  to  the  old  house 
to  spend  Christmas,  I  thought  it  was 
almost  heathenish  for  his  mother  to 
have  him  send  letters  up  the  chimney 
and  talk  as  if  Santa  Claus  was  some 
real  person.  I  told  her  so  one  day, 
and  asked  what  was  going  to  happen 
when  the  little  fellow  outgrew  such 
beliefs. 

"  '  Why,  Father  Holmes,'  said  she, 
—  I  can  hear  her  now,  words  and  tones, 
for  it  set  me  to  thinking,  --  '  don't  you 
see  that  he  is  all  the  time  growing  into 
a  broader  belief?  It's  this  way.'  She 
picked  up  a  big  apple  from  the  table. 
37 


H0a  Holmes 


'  Once  this  apple  was  only  a  tiny  seed- 
pod  in  the  heart  of  a  pink  blossom. 
The  beauty  of  the  blossom  was  all  that 
the  world  saw,  at  first,  but  gradually, 
as  the  fruit  swelled  and  developed,  the 
pink  petals  fell  off,  naturally  and  easily, 
and  the  growing  fruit  was  left.  My 
little  son's  idea  of  Christmas  is  in  the 
blossom  time  now.  This  rosy  glamour 
of  old  customs  and  traditions  that 
makes  it  so  beautiful  to  him  is  taking 
the  part  of  the  pink  petals.  They  will 
fall  away  by  and  by,  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, for  underneath  a  beautiful  truth 
is  beginning  to  swell  to  fruitage.  Santa 
Claus  is  the  Spirit  of  Christmas  love 
and  giving,  personified.  It  is  because 
I  want  to  make  it  real  and  vital,  some- 
thing that  my  baby's  mind  can  grasp 
and  enjoy,  that  I  incarnate  it  in  the 
form  of  the  good  old  Saint  Nicholas, 
but  I  never  let  him  lose  sight  of  the 
38 


Ht  tbe 


Star.  It  was  the  Spirit  of  Christmas 
that  started  the  wise  men  on  their 
search,  and  they  followed  the  Star  and 
they  found  the  Child,  and  laid  gifts  at 
his  feet.  And  when  the  Child  was 
grown,  he,  too,  went  out  in  the  world 
and  followed  the  Star  and  scattered  his 
gifts  of  love  and  healing  for  all  the 
children  of  men.  And  so  it  has  gone 
on  ever  since,  that  Spirit  of  Christmas, 
impelling  us  to  follow  and  to  find  and 
to  give,  wherever  there  is  a  need  for 
our  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh. 
That  is  the  larger  belief  my  boy  is 
growing  into,  from  the  smaller/ 

"  And  she  is  right,"  said  the  old 
man,  after  an  impressive  pause.  "  She 
raised  that  boy  to  be  an  own  brother 
to  Santa  Claus,  as  far  as  good-will  to 
men  goes.  It's  Christmas  all  the  year 
round  wherever  he  is.  And  now  when 
he  brings  his  boys  back  to  the  old 
39 


Hsa  Holmes 


home  and  hangs  their  stockings  up  by 
the  fire,  I  never  say  a  word.  Some- 
times when  the  little  chaps  are  hunt- 
ing for  the  marks  of  the  reindeer  hoofs 
in  the  ashes,  I  kneel  down  on  the  old 
hearthstone  and  hunt,  too. 

"A  brother  to  Santa  Claus!"  The 
phrase  still  echoed  in  the  heart  of 
Perkins's  oldest  when  the  group  around 
the  stove  dispersed.  It  was  that  which 
decided  the  fate  of  the  nickel,  and 
filled  the  little  red  mittens  with  sticks 
of  striped  delight  for  six,  instead  of  the 
lone  orange  for  one.  Out  of  a  con- 
versation but  dimly  understood  he  had 
gathered  a  vague  comfort.  It  made 
less  difference  that  his  patron  saint  was 
a  myth,  since  he  had  learned  there 
might  be  brothers  in  the  Claus  family 
for  him  to  fall  back  upon.  Then  his 
fingers  closed  over  the  paper  bag  of 
40 


Ht  tbe  <Tro00*roa£>0 


peppermints,  and,  suddenly,  with  a  little 
thrill,  he  felt  that  in  some  queer  way 
he  belonged  to  that  same  brotherhood. 

As  he  fumbled  at  the  latch,  the  old 
miller,  who  always  saw  his  own  boy- 
hood rise  before  him  in  that  small 
tow-headed  figure,  and  who  somehow 
had  divined  the  cause  of  the  tear- 
streaks  on  the  dirty  little  face,  called 
him.  "  Here,  sonny  !  "  It  was  a  pair 
of  shining  new  skates  that  dangled 
from  the  miller's  hands  into  his. 

One  look  of  rapturous  delight,  and 
two  little  feet  were  flying  homeward 
down  the  frozen  pike,  beating  time  to 
a  joy  that  only  the  overflowing  heart 
of  a  child  can  know,  when  its  troubles 
are  all  healed,  and  faith  in  mankind 
restored.  And  the  old  man,  going 
home  in  the  frosty  twilight  of  the 
Christmas  eve,  saw  before  him  all  the 
way  the  light  of  a  shining  star. 


H0a  Holmes 


Chapter  mil 


IT  was  an  hour  past  the  usual  time 
for  closing  the  Cross-Roads  store, 
but  no  one  made  a  move  to  go, 
Listening  in  the  comfortable  glow  of 
the  red-hot  stove,  to  the  wind  whis- 
tling down  the  long  pipe,  was  far  pleas- 
anter  than  facing  its  icy  blasts  on  the 
way  home.  Besides,  it  was  the  last 
night  of  the  old  year,  and  hints  of 
forthcoming  cider  had  been  dropped 
by  Jim  Bowser,  the  storekeeper.  Also 
an  odour  of  frying  doughnuts  came 
in  from  the  kitchen,  whenever  Mrs. 
Bowser  opened  the  door  into  the 
entry. 

Added  to  the  usual  group  of  loung- 
ers was  the  drummer  who  had  spent 
Christmas   eve    with    them.     He    had 
come  in  on  an  accommodation  train, 
42 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roat>0 


and  was  waiting  for  the  midnight  ex- 
press. He  had  had  the  floor  for  some 
time  with  his  stories,  when  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  the  laughter  which 
followed  one  of  his  jokes,  Bud  Hines 
made  himself  heard. 

"  I  say,  Jim,"  he  exclaimed,  turning 
to  the  storekeeper,  "  why  don't  you 
tear  off  the  last  leaf  of  that  calendar  ? 
We've  come  to  the  end  of  everything 
now  ;  end  of  the  day,  end  of  the  year, 
end  of  the  century  !  Something  none 
of  us  will  ever  experience  again.  It's 
always  a  mighty  solemn  thought  to  me 
that  I'm  doing  a  thing  for  the  la-ast 
time ! " 

Jim  laughed  cheerfully,  tilting  his 
chair  back  against  the  counter,  and 
thrusting  his  thumbs  into  the  armholes 
of  his  vest. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  feel  any  call  to 
mourn  over  takin'  down  an  old  cal- 

43 


B0a  Holmes 


endar  when  I  have  a  prettier  one  to 
put  in  its  place,  and  it's  the  same  way 
with  the  century.  There'll  be  a  better 
one  to  begin  on  in  the  morning." 

"  That's  so,"  asserted  Cy  Akers. 
"  But  some  people  come  bang  up 
against  a  New  Year  as  if  it  was  a  stone 
wall,  and  down  they  set  and  count  up 
their  sins,  and  turn  over  new  leaves, 
and  load  'emselves  down  with  so  many 
good  resolutions  that  they  stick  in  the 
mud  by  the  end  of  the  first  week. 
Now  I  hold  that  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
almanacs,  steppin'  from  one  year  to 
another,  or  from  one  century  to  an- 
other, wouldn't  jar  you  no  more  than 
steppin*  over  the  equator.  They're 
only  imaginary  lines,  and  nobody  would 
ever  know  where  he  was  at,  either  in 
months  or  meridians,  if  he  didn't  have 
almanacs  and  the  like  to  keep  him 
posted.  Fourth  of  July  is  just  as  good 
44 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roat>0 


a  time  to  take  stock  and  turn  over  a 
new  leaf  as  the  first  of  January." 

"  Maybe  you  take  stock  like  a  man 
I  used  to  sell  to  down  in  Henderson 
County,"  said  the  drummer.  "  He 
never  kept  any  books,  so  he  never 
knew  exactly  where  he  was  '  at,'  as  you 
say.  Once  a  year  he'd  walk  around 
the  store  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  size  up  things  in  a  general  sort  of 
way.  '  Bill,'  he'd  say  to  his  clerk, 
cocking  his  eyes  up  at  the  shelves, 

*  we've  got  a   right  smart   chance    of 
canned    goods    left     over.     I    reckon 
there's  a  half  shelf  full  more  than  we 
had    left    last    year.     I    know    there's 
more  bottles  of  ketchup/     Then  he'd 
take   another   turn    around    the   room. 

*  Bill,  I  disremember  how  many  pitch- 
forks  we  had    in   this   rack.     There's 
only    two    left    now.     Nearly    all    the 
calico  is  sold,  and  (thumping  the  mo- 

45 


Hea  Holmes 


lasses  barrel),  this  here  bar'l  sounds  like 
it's  purty  nigh  empty.  Take  it  all 
around,  Bill,  we've  done  first-rate  this 
year,  so  I  don't  know  as  it's  worth 
while  botherin'  about  weighin'  and 
measurin'  what's  left  over,  so  long  as 
we're  satisfied/  And  maybe  that's  why 
Cy  makes  so  little  of  New  Year," 
added  the  drummer,  with  a  sly  wink 
at  the  others.  "  He  thinks  it's  not 
worth  while  to  weigh  and  measure  his 
shortcomings  when  he  can  take  stock 
of  himself  in  a  general  sort  of  a  way, 
and  always  be  perfectly  satisfied  with 
himself." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  Cy's  expense, 
and  Bud  Hines  began  again. 

"What  worries  me  is,  what's  been 
prophesied  about  the  new  century. 
One  would  think  we've  had  enough 
famines  and  plagues  and  wars  and 
rumours  of  wars  in  this  here  old  one  to 
46 


Ht  tbe  Cro0e*roa&0 


do  for  awhile,  but  from  what  folks  say, 
it  ain't  goin'  to  hold  a  candle  to  the 
trouble  we'll  see  in  the  next  one." 

"  Troubles  is  seasonin'.  '  'Simmons 
ain't  good  till  they  are  frostbit/  "  quoted 
Cy. 

"  Then  accordin'  to  Bud's  tell,  he 
ought  to  be  the  best  seasoned  persim- 
mon on  the  bough,"  chuckled  the 
storekeeper. 

"  No,  that  fellow  that  was  here  this 
afternoon  goes  ahead  of  Bud,"  insisted 
Cy,  turning  to  the  drummer.  "  I  wish 
you  could  have  heard  him,  pardner. 
He  came  in  to  get  a  postal  order  for 
some  money  he  wanted  to  send  in  a 
letter,  and  he  nearly  wiped  up  the  earth 
with  poor  old  Bowser,  because  there 
was  a  two-cent  war  tax  to  pay  on  it. 

"  '  Whose  war  ? '  says  he.  '  'Tain't 
none  of  my  makin','  says  he,  '  and  I'll 
be  switched  if  I'll  pay  taxes  on  a  thing 
47 


H0a  Holmes 


I've  been  dead  set  against  from  the 
start.  It's  highway  robbery,'  says  he, 
'  to  load  the  country  down  with  a  war 
debt  in  times  like  these.  It's  kill 
yourself  to  keep  yourself  these  days, 
and  as  my  Uncle  Josh  used  to  say  after 
the  Mexican  war,  "  it's  tough  luck 
when  people  are  savin*  and  scrimpin' 
at  the  spigot  for  the  government  to  be 
drawin'  off  at  the  bung." 

"  Bowser  here  just  looked  him  over 
as  if  he'd  been  a  freak  at  a  side-show, 
and  said  Bowser,  in  a  dry  sort  of  way, 
he  guessed,  '  when  it  came  to  the  pinch, 
the  spigot  wouldn't  feel  that  a  two-cent 
stamp  was  a  killin'  big  leakage.' 

"  The  fellow  at  that  threw  the  cop- 
pers down  on  the  counter,  mad  as  a 
hornet.  '  It's  the  principle  of  the 
thing,'  says  he.  '  Uncle  Sam  had  no 
business  to  bite  off  more'n  he  could 
chew  and  then  call  on  me  to  help. 
48 


What's  the  war  done  for  this  country, 
anyhow  ? ' 

"  He  was  swinging  his  arms  like  a 
stump  speaker  at  a  barbecue,  by  this 
time.  '  What's  it  done  ? '  says  he. 
'  Why  it's  sent  the  soldiers  back  from 
Cuba  with  an  itch  as  bad  as  the  small- 
pox, and  as  ketchin'  to  them  citizens 
that  wanted  peace,  as  to  them  that 
clamoured  for  war.  I  know  what  I'm 
talkin'  about,  for  my  hired  man  like  to 
'uv  died  with  it,  and  he  hadn't  favoured 
the  war  any  more  than  a  spring  lamb. 
And  what's  it  doin'  for  us,  now  ? '  says 
he.  '  Sendin'  the  poor  fellows  back 
from  the  Philippines  by  the  ship-load, 
crazy  as  June-bugs.  I  know  what  I'm 
talkin'  about.  That  happened  to  one 
of  my  wife's  cousins.  What  was  it 
ever  begun  for,'  says  he,  '  tell  me 
that !  ' 

"Peck  here,  behind  the  stove,  sung 

49 


H0a  Holmes 


out  like  a  fog-horn,  '  Remember  the 
Maine  ! '  Peck  knew  what  a  blow  the 
fellow  had  made  at  an  indignation 
meeting  when  the  news  first  came. 
No  tellin'  what  would  have  happened 
then  if  a  little  darky  hadn't  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door  and  yelled,  '  Say, 
mistah,  yo'  mules  is  done  backed  yo' 
wagon  in  de  ditch ! '  He  tore  out  to 
tend  to  them,  or  we  might  have  had 
another  Spanish  war  right  here  among 
Bowser's  goods  and  chattels." 

"  No  danger,"  said  Peck,  dryly, 
"  he  isn't  the  kind  of  a  fellow  to  fight 
for  principle.  It's  only  when  his 
pocketbook  is  touched  he  wants  to 
lick  somebody.  He's  the  stingiest  man 
I  ever  knew,  and  I've  known  some 
mighty  mean  men  in  my  time." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  all  to- 
night?" said  the  drummer.  "You're 
the  most  pessimistic  crowd  I've  struck 
50 


Ht  tbe 


in  an  age.  This  is  the  tune  you've 
been  giving  me  from  the  minute  I 
lifted  the  latch."  And  beating  time 
with  foot  and  hands  in  old  plantation 
style,  the  drummer  began  forthwith  to 
sing  in  a  deep  bass  voice  that  wakened 
the  little  Bowsers  above : 

"  Ole  Satan  is  loose  an'  a-bummin' ! 
De  wheels  er  distruckshin  is  a-hummin.' 
Oh,  come  'long,  sinner,  ef  you  comin' !  " 

The  door  into  the  entry  opened  a 
crack  and  Mrs.  Bowser's  forefinger 
beckoned. 

"  Here's  good-bye  to  the  old  and 
good  luck  to  the  new,"  cried  Jim, 
jumping  up  to  take  the  big  pitcher  of 
cider  that  she  passed  through  the  open- 
ing. 

"  And  here's  to  Mrs.  Bowser,"  cried 
the  drummer,  taking  the  new  tin  cup 
filled  for  him  with  the  sparkling  cider, 


H0a  Holmes 


and  helping  himself  to  a  hot  dough- 
nut from  the  huge  panful  which  she 
brought  in.  "  It's  a  pretty  good  sort 
of  world,  after  all,  that  gives  you  cakes 
as  crisp  and  sugary  as  these.  '  Speak 
well  of  the  bridge  that  carries  you 
over'  is  my  motto,  so  -don't  let  another 
fellow  cheep  to-night,  unless  he  can 
say  something  good  of  the  poor  old 
century  or  the  men  who've  lived  in 
it!" 

"  Mr.  Holmes  !  Mr.  Asa  Holmes  !  " 
cried  several  voices. 

The  old  miller,  who  had  been  silent 
all  evening,  straightened  himself  up  in 
his  chair  and  drew  his  hand  over  his 
eyes. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  parting  with  an 
old  comrade,  to-night,"  he  said.  "  The 
century  had  only  fifteen  years  the  start 
of  me,  and  it's  a  long  way  we've  trav- 
elled together.  I've  been  sitting  here, 
52 


at  tbe 


thinking     how     much     we've      lived 
through.      Listen,  boys." 

It  was  a  brief  series  of  pictures  he 
drew  for  them,  against  the  background 
of  his  early  pioneer  days.  They  saw 
him,  a  little  lad,  trudging  more  than 
a  mile  on  a  winter  morning  to  borrow 
a  kettle  of  hot  coals,  because  the  fire 
had  gone  out  on  his  own  hearthstone, 
and  it  was  before  the  days  of  matches. 
They  saw  him  huddled  with  the  other 
little  ones  around  his  mother's  knee 
when  the  wolves  howled  in  the  night 
outside  the  door,  and  only  the  light 
of  a  tallow-dip  flickered  through  the 
darkness  of  the  little  cabin.  They  saw 
the  struggle  of  a  strong  life  against 
the  limitations  of  the  wilderness,  and 
realised  what  the  battle  must  have  been 
oftentimes,  against  sudden  disease  and 
accident  and  death,  with  the  nearest 
doctor  a  three  days'  journey  distant,  and 
53 


H0a  Holmes 


no  smoke  from  any  neighbour's  chim- 
ney rising  anywhere  on  all  the  wide 
horizon. 

While  he  talked,  a  heavy  freight 
train  rumbled  by  outside ;  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  telegraph  wires. 
The  jingle  of  a  telephone  bell  inter- 
rupted his  reminiscences.  The  old 
man  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  See 
what  we  have  come  to,"  he  said,  "  from 
such  a  past  to  a  time  when  I  can  say 
'  hello,'  across  a  continent.  Cables  and 
cross-ties  and  telegraph  poles  have  anni- 
hilated distance.  The  century  and  I 
came  in  on  an  ox-cart ;  we  are  going 
out  on  a  streak  of  lightning. 

"  But  that's  not  the  greatest  thing," 
he  said,  pausing,  while  the  listening 
faces  grew  still  more  thoughtful. 
"  Think  of  the  hospitals  !  The  homes  ! 
The  universities !  The  social  settle- 
ments !  The  free  libraries  !  The  hu- 
54 


at  tbe 


mane  efforts  everywhere  to  give  human- 
ity an  uplift !  When  I  think  of  all  this 
century  has  accomplished,  of  the  heroic 
lives  it  has  produced,  I  haven't  a  word 
to  say  about  its  mistakes  and  failures. 
After  all,  how  do  we  know  that  the 
things  we  cry  out  against  are  mistakes  ? 

"  This  war  may  be  a  Samson's  riddle 
that  we  are  not  wise  enough  to  read. 
Those  who  shall  come  after  us  may  be 
able  to  say  *  Out  of  the  eater  came  forth 
meat9  and  out  of  the  strong  came  forth 
sweetness  !  ' 

Somewhere  in  an  upper  room  a  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  deep  silence  fell  on 
the  little  company  as  they  waited  for 
the  solemn  passing  of  the  century.  It 
was  no  going  out  as  of  some  decrepit 
Lear  tottering  from  his  throne.  Per- 
haps no  man  there  could  have  put  it  in 
words,  but  each  one  felt  that  its  majes- 
tic leave-taking  was  like  the  hoary  old 
55 


H0a  Holmes 


apostle's  :  "  I  have  fought  a  good  fight, 
I  have  finished  my  course,  I  have  kept 
the  faith." 


Ht  tbc  Cross^roafcs 


Chapter  HID 


FOR  some  occult  reason,  the  suc- 
cessful merchant  in  small  towns 
and  villages  is  the  confidant,  if 
not  father- confessor,  of  a  large  number 
of  his  patronesses.  It  may  be  that  his 
flattering  air  of  personal  interest,  as- 
sumed for  purely  business  purposes, 
loosens  not  only  the  purse-strings  but 
the  spring  that  works  the  panorama 
of  private  affairs.  Or  it  may  be  an 
idiosyncrasy  of  some  classes  of  the 
mind  feminine,  to  make  no  distinc- 
tion between  a  bargain  counter  and  a 
confessional.  Whatever  the  cause, 
many  an  honest  merchant  can  testify 
that  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a 
woman  to  air  her  domestic  troubles 
while  she  buys  a  skirt  braid,  or  to 
drag  out  her  family  skeleton  with  the 
57 


H0a  Holmes 


sample  of  sewing  silk  she  wishes  to 
match. 

The  Cross- Roads  had  had  its  share 
of  confidences,  although  as  a  rule  the 
women  who  disposed  of  their  butter 
and  eggs  in  trade  to  Bowser  were  of 
the  patient  sort,  grown  silent  under 
the  repressing  influence  of  secluded 
farm  life.  Still,  Bowser,  quick  to  see 
and  keen  to  judge,  had  gained  a  re- 
markable insight  into  neighbourhood 
affairs  in  fifteen  years'  dealings  with  his 
public.  "  All  things  come  to  him  who 
waits  "  if  he  wears  an  air  of  habitual 
interest  and  has  a  sympathetic  way  of 
saying  "  Ah  !  indeed  !  " 

It  was  with  almost  the  certainty  of 
foreknowledge  that  Bowser  counted 
his  probable  patrons  as  he  spread  out  his 
valentines  on  the  morning  of  the  four- 
teenth of  February.  He  had  selected 
his  comic  ones  with  a  view  to  the 


Bt  tbc 


feud  that  existed  between  the  Hil- 
lock and  Bond  families,  well  knowing 
that  a  heavy  cross-fire  of  ugly  carica- 
tures and  insulting  rhymes  would  be 
kept  up  all  day  by  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  those  warring  households.  It 
was  with  professional  satisfaction  he 
smiled  over  the  picture  of  a  fat  man 
with  a  donkey's  head,  which  he  was 
as  sure  would  be  sent  by  Pete  Hillock 
to  old  man  Bond,  as  if  he  had  heard 
Pete's  penny  dropping  into  the  cash- 
drawer. 

"  Nothing  like  supplying  the  de- 
mand," he  chuckled. 

It  was  with  more  than  professional 
interest  that  he  arranged  the  lace-paper 
valentines  in  the  show-case,  for  the 
little  embossed  Cupids  had  a  strong 
ally  in  this  rustic  haberdasher,  whose 
match-making  propensities  had  helped 
many  a  little  romance  to  a  happy  issue. 
59 


H0a  Holmes 


Drawing  on  his  fund  of  private  infor- 
mation, acquired  in  his  role  of  confi- 
dant to  the  neighbourhood  gossips,  he 
set  out  his  stock  of  plump  red  hearts, 
forget-me-nots,  and  doves ;  and  with 
each  addition  to  the  festal  array  he 
nodded  his  head  knowingly  over  the 
particular  courtship  it  was  designed  to 
speed,  or  the  lovers'  quarrel  that  he 
hoped  might  be  ended  thereby. 

There  had  been  two  weeks  of  "  Feb- 
ruary thaw."  Melting  snow  had  made 
the  mud  hub-deep  in  places.  There 
was  a  velvety  balminess  in  the  touch 
of  the  warm  wind,  and  faint,  elusive 
odours,  prophetic  of  spring,  rose  from 
the  moist  earth  and  sap-quickened  trees. 

The  door  of  the  Cross-Road  store 
stood  open,  and  behind  it,  at  the  post- 
office  desk,  sat  Marion  Holmes,  the 
old  miller's  granddaughter.  Just  out 
60 


Ht  tbc 


of  college  and  just  into  society,  she  had 
come  to  spend  Lent  in  the  old  place 
that  had  welcomed  her  every  summer 
during  her  childhood.  The  group 
around  the  stove  stared  covertly  at  the 
pretty  girl  in  the  tailor-made  gown, 
failing  to  recognise  in  the  tall,  stylish 
figure  any  trace  of  the  miller's  "  little 
Polly,"  who  used  to  dangle  her  feet 
from  the  counter  and  munch  pepper- 
mint drops,  while  she  lisped  nursery 
rhymes  for  their  edification. 

She  had  come  for  the  letters  herself, 
she  told  Bowser,  because  she  was  ex- 
pecting a  whole  bag  full,  and  her 
grandfather's  rheumatism  kept  him  at 
home.  Installed  in  the  post-office 
chair,  behind  the  railing  that  enclosed 
the  sanctum  of  pigeon-holes,  she  amused 
herself  by  watching  the  customers  while 
she  waited  for  the  mail-train. 

"  It's  like  looking  into  a  kaleido- 
6 1 


B0a  Holmes 


scope,"  she  told  Bowser  in  one  of  the 
pauses  of  trade.  "  Every  one  who 
comes  in  gives  me  a  different  point 
of  view  and  combination  of  opinions. 
Now,  those  valentines !  I  was  think- 
ing what  old-fashioned  things  those 
little  lace-paper  affairs  are,  and  won- 
dering how  anybody  could  possibly  get 
up  any  thrills  over  them,  when  in 
walked  Miss  Anastasia  Dill.  Prim  and 
gentle  as  ever,  isn't  she  ?  Still  getting 
her  styles  from  Godeys  Lady's  Books  of 
the  early  sixties ;  she  must  draw  on 
their  antiquated  love  stories  for  her 
sentiment,  too,  for  she  seemed  lost  in 
admiration  of  those  hearts  and  darts. 
What  do  you  suppose  is  Miss  Anastasia's 
idea  of  a  lover  ? " 

Marion  rattled  on  with  all  of  a  de- 
butante's  reckless    enthusiasm   for   any 
subject  under   discussion.     "  Wouldn't 
he  be  as  odd  and  old-fashioned  as  the 
62 


Ht  tbe 


lace  valentines  themselves  ?  She'd  call 
him  a  suitor,  wouldn't  she  ?  I  wonder 
if  she  ever  had  one." 

Then  Bowser,  piecing  together  the 
fragmentary  gossip  of  fifteen  years,  told 
Marion  all  he  knew  of  Miss  Anasta- 
sia's  gentle  romance ;  and  Marion,  idly 
clasping  and  unclasping  the  little  Yale 
pin  on  her  jacket,  gained  another  peep 
into  the  kaleidoscope  of  human  expe- 
riences. 

"  I  have  read  of  such  devotion  to  a 
memory,"  she  said  when  the  story  was 
done,  "  but  I  never  met  it  in  the  flesh. 
What  a  pity  he  died  while  he  was  on 
such  a  high  pedestal  in  her  imagina- 
tion. If  he  had  lived  she  would  have 
discovered  that  there  are  no  such  par- 
agons, and  all  the  other  sons  of  Adam 
needn't  have  suffered  by  comparison. 
So  she's  an  old  maid  simply  because 
she  put  her  ideal  of  a  lover  so  high  in 
63 


Hsa  Holmes 


the  clouds  nobody  could  live  up  to  it ! 
Dear  old  Miss  Anastasia  !  " 

Bowser  pulled  his  beard.  "  Such 
couples  make  me  think  of  these  here 
lamps  with  double  wicks,"  he  said. 
"  They  hardly  ever  burn  along  together 
evenly.  One  wick  is  sure  to  flare  up 
higher  than  the  other  ;  you  either  have 
to  keep  turning  it  down  and  get  along 
with  a  half  light  or  let  it  smoke  the 
chimney  —  maybe  crack  it  —  and  make 
things  generally  uncomfortable.  But 
here  comes  somebody,  Miss  Marion, 
who's  burned  along  pretty  steady,  and 
that  through  three  administrations.  It's 
her  brag  that  she's  had  three  husbands 
and  treated  them  just  alike,  even  to  the 
matter  of  tombstones.  '  Not  a  pound 
difference  in  the  weight  nor  a  dollar  in 
the  price,'  she  always  says." 

The  newcomer  was  a  fat,  wheezy 
woman,  spattered  with  mud  from  the 
64 


at  tbe 


hem  of  her  skirt  to  the  crown  of  her 
big  crape  bonnet,  which  had  tipped 
on  one  side  with  the  jolting  of  the 
wagon. 

"  Well,  Jim  Bowser ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, catching  sight  of  the  valen- 
tines. "  Ef  you  ain't  got  out  them 
silly,  sentimental  fol-de-rols  again  !  My 
nephew,  Jason  Potter,  —  that's  my  sec- 
ond husband's  sister's  son,  you  know,  — 
spent  seventy-five  cents  last  year  to  buy 
one  of  them  silly  things  to  send  to  his 
girl ;  and  I  says  to  him,  '  Jason/  says  I, 
'  ef  Td  been  Lib  Meadows,  that  would 
*uv  cooked  your  goose  with  me!  Any 
man  simple  enough  to  waste  his  sub- 
stance so,  wouldn't  make  a  good  pro- 
vider.' I  ought  to  know  —  I've  been 
a  wife  three  times." 

This,  like  all  other  of  Mrs.  Power's 
conversational  roads,  led  back  to  the 
three  tombstones,  and  started  a  flow 

65 


H0a  Holmes 


of  good-natured  badinage  on  the  sub- 
ject of  matrimony,  which  continued 
long  after  she  had  taken  her  noisy 
departure.  "  Well !  "  exclaimed  Bud 
Hines,  as  the  big  crape  bonnet  went 
jolting  down  the  road,  "  I  guess  there's 
three  good  men  gone  that  could  tell 
why  heaven  is  heaven." 

"Why?"  asked  Cy  Akers. 

"  Because  there's  no  marryin'  or 
givin'  in  marriage  there." 

"  Bud  speaks  feelingly  !  "  said  Cy, 
winking  at  the  others.  "  He'd  better 
get  a  job  on  a  newspaper  to  write  Side 
Talks  with  Henpecked  Husbands." 

"  Shouldn't  think  you'd  want  to  hear 
any  extrys  or  supplements,"  retorted 
Bud.  "  You  get  enough  in  your  own 
daily  editions." 

"St.   Valentine    has    been    generous 
with  my  little  Polly,"  said  the  old  mil- 
66 


at  tbe 


ler,  looking  up  fondly  at  the  tall,  grace- 
ful girl,  coming  into  his  room,  her  face 
aglow  and  her  arms  full  of  packages. 

"  But  what's  the  good  of  it  all, 
grandfather  ?  "  answered  Marion.  "  I've 
been  looking  into  Cupid's  kaleidoscope 
through  other  people's  eyes  this  after- 
noon, and  nothing  is  rose-coloured 
as  I  thought.  Everything  is  horrid. 
'  Marriage  is  a  failure/  and  sentiment 
is  a  silly  thing  that  people  make  flip- 
pant jokes  about,  or  else  break  their 
hearts  with,  like  Mr.  Bowser's  double- 
wick  lamps,  that  flare  up  and  crack 
their  chimneys.  I've  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  St.  Valentine  has  outlived 
his  generation." 

She  broke  the  string  which  bound 
one  of  the  boxes  that  she  had  dropped 
on  the  table,  and  took  out  a  great  dewy 
bunch  of  sweet  violets.  As  their  fra- 
grance filled  the  room,  the  old  man 
67 


H0a  Holmes 


looked  around  as  if  half  expecting  to 
see  some  familiar  presence ;  then 
dropped  his  white  head  with  a  sigh, 
and  gazed  into  the  embers  on  the 
hearth,  lost  in  a  tender  reverie. 

Presently  he  said,  "  I  wish  you  would 
hand  me  that  box  on  my  wardrobe 
shelf,  little  girl."  As  Marion  opened 
the  wardrobe  door,  something  hanging 
there  made  her  give  a  little  start  of 
surprise.  It  was  an  old  familiar  gray 
dress,  with  the  creases  still  in  the  bent 
sleeves  just  as  they  had  been  left  when 
the  tired  arms  last  slipped  out  of  them. 
That  was  ten  years  ago ;  and  Marion, 
standing  there  with  a  mist  gathering 
in  her  eyes,  recalled  the  day  her  grand- 
father had  refused  to  let  any  one  fold 
it  away.  It  had  hung  there  all  those 
years,  the  tangible  reminder  of  the 
strong,  sweet  presence  that  had  left  its 
imprint  on  every  part  of  the  household. 
68 


at  tbc 


"  It  is  like  my  life  since  she  slipped 
out  of  it,"  the  old  man  had  whispered, 
smoothing  the  empty  sleeve  with  his 
stiff  old  fingers.  "  Like  my  heart  —  set 
to  her  ways  at  every  turn,  and  left  just 
as  she  rounded  it  out  —  but  now  —  so 
empty  !  " 

He  lifted  an  old  dog-eared  school- 
book  from  the  box  that  Marion  brought 
him,  a  queer  little  "  Geography  and 
Atlas  of  the  Heavens,"  in  use  over  fifty 
years  ago.  Inside  was  a  tiny  slip  of 
paper,  time  yellowed  and  worn.  The 
ink  was  faded,  until  the  words  written 
in  an  unformed  girlish  hand  were 
barely  legible : 

"  True  as  grapes  grow  on  a  vine, 
I  will  be  your  Valentine." 

"  I  had  put  a  letter  into  her  Murray's 
grammar,"    he    explained,  holding   up 
another    little    book.       "  Here    is    the 
69 


H0a  Holmes 


page,  just  at  the  conjugation  of  the 
verb  '  to  love.'  You  see  I  was  a  big, 
shy,  overgrown  boy  that  lost  my  tongue 
whenever  I  looked  at  her,  although 
she  wasn't  fifteen  then,  and  only  reached 
my  shoulder.  This  valentine  was  the 
answer  that  she  slipped  into  my  atlas 
of  the  heavens.  I  thought  the  sky 
itself  had  never  held  such  a  star.  We 
walked  home  across  the  woodland  to- 
gether that  day,  never  saying  a  word. 
It  was  the  last  of  the  February  thaw, 
and  the  birds  were  twittering  as  if  it 
were  really  spring.  Just  such  a  day  as 
this.  All  of  a  sudden,  right  at  my  feet, 
I  saw  something  smiling  up  at  me,  blue 
as  the  blue  of  my  Polly's  eyes.  I 
stooped  and  brushed  away  the  leaves, 
and  there  were  two  little  violets. 

"  As  I  gave  them  to  her  I  wanted  to 
say,  '  There   will  always  be  violets  in 
my  heart   for  you,  my  Polly/   but  I 
70 


Ht  tbe 


couldn't  speak  a  word.  I  know  she 
understood,  for  long  years  after  —  when 
she  was  dead  —  I  found  them  here. 
She  had  pinned  them  on  the  page 
where  my  letter  had  lain,  here  on  the 
conjugation  that  says,  '  we  love,'  and 
she  had  added  the  word  'for  ever.'  J 

A  tear  dropped  on  the  dead  violets 
as  the  old  man  reverently  closed  the 
book,  and  sat  gazing  again  into  the 
dying  embers.  There  was  a  tremulous 
smile  on  his  face.  Was  it  backward 
over  the  hills  of  their  youth  he  was 
wandering,  or  ahead  to  those  heights 
of  Hope,  where  love  shall  "  put  on 
immortality  ? " 

Marion  laid  her  warm  cheek  against 
her  violets,  still  fragrant  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  their  fresh,  unfaded  youth. 
Then  taking  a  cluster  from  the  great 
dewy  bunch,  she  fastened  it  at  her 
throat  with  the  little  Yale  pin. 
7' 


Hea  Holmes 


Cbaptcr  ID 


TRADE  was  dull  at  the  Cross- 
Roads.  Jim  Bowser,  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  pockets  and  his 
lips  puckered  to  a  whistle,  stood  look- 
ing through  the  dingy  glass  of  his  front 
door.  March  was  coming  in  with  a 
snow-storm,  and  all  he  could  see  in 
any  direction  was  a  blinding  fall  of 
white  flakes.  There  were  only  three 
men  behind  the  stove  that  afternoon, 
and  one  of  them  was  absorbed  in  a 
newspaper.  Conversation  flagged,  and 
from  time  to  time  Bud  Hines  yawned 
audibly. 

"  This  is  getting  to  be  mighty  mo- 
notonous," remarked  the  storekeeper, 
glancing  from  the  falling  snow  to  the 
silent  group  by  the  stove. 

"  March  always  is,"  answered  Bud 
72 


at  tbc  Cross^roafcs 


Hines.  "  The  other  months  have 
some  holiday  in  'em ;  something  to 
brighten  'em  up,  if  it's  no  more  than 
a  family  birthday.  But  to  me,  March 
is  as  dull  and  uninteresting  as  a  mud 
road." 

"  There's  the  inauguration  this  year," 
suggested  Cy  Akers,  looking  up  from 
his  newspaper.  "  That's  a  big  event. 
This  paper  is  full  of  it." 

"  Well,  now  you've  hit  it ! "  ex- 
claimed Bud,  with  withering  scorn,  as 
he  bit  off  another  chew  of  tobacco. 
"  That  is  exciting  !  Just  about  as  in- 
teresting as  watching  a  man  take  his 
second  helping  of  pie.  I  wouldn't  go 
across  the  road  to  see  it.  Now  in  a 
monarchy,  where  death  makes  the 
changes,  it  can't  get  to  be  a  cut  and 
dried  affair  that  takes  place  every  four 
years.  They  make  a  grand  occasion 
of  it,  too,  with  their  pomp  and  cere- 
73 


H0a  Holmes 


mony.  Look  at  what  England's  just 
seen.  It's  the  sight  of  a  lifetime  to 
bury  a  queen  and  crown  a  king.  But 
what  do  we  see  when  we  change  Presi- 
dents ?  One  man  sliding  into  a  chair 
and  another  sliding  out,  same  as  when 
the  barber  calls  '  Next ! '  Humph  !  " 

Cy  Akers  rubbed  his  chin.  "  Fuss 
and  feathers !  That's  all  it  amounts 
to,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I'm  down  on 
monopolies,  and  in  my  opinion  it's  the 
worst  kind  of  monopoly  to  let  one 
family  crowd  out  everybody  else  in  the 
king  business.  I  like  a  country  where 
every  man  in  it  has  a  show.  Not  that 
I'd  be  President,  if  they  offered  me 
double  the  salary,  but  it  is  worth  a 
whole  lot  to  me  to  feel  that  in  case  I 
did  want  the  office,  I've  as  good  a  right 
to  it  as  any  man  living.  And  talk 
about  sights  —  I  say  it's  the  sight  of  a 
lifetime  to  see  a  man  step  out  from  his 
74 


at  tbe 


place  among  the  people,  anywhere  he 
happens  to  be  when  they  call  his  name, 
take  his  turn  at  ruling  as  if  he'd  been 
born  to  it,  and  then  step  back  as  if 
nothing  had  happened." 

Bud  smiled  derisively.  "You  only 
see  that  on  paper,  my  boy.  Men 
don't  step  quietly  into  offices  in  this 
country.  They  run  for  'em  till  they 
are  red  in  the  face,  and  it's  the  best 
runner  that  gets  there,  not  the  best 
man.  Monopoly  in  the  king  business 
keeps  out  the  rabble,  any  how,  and  it 
gives  a  country  a  good  deal  more  dig- 
nity to  be  ruled  by  a  dynasty  than  by 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry." 

"  Well,  there's  no  strings  tied  to 
you,"  said  Cy,  testily,  taking  up  his 
newspaper  again.  "  When  people  don't 
like  the  way  things  are  run  on  this 
side  of  the  water,  there's  nothing  to 
hinder  emigration." 
75 


H0a  Holmes 


There  was  a  stamping  of  snowy  feet 
outside  the  door,  and  a  big,  burly  fel- 
low blustered  in,  whom  they  hailed  as 
Henry  Bicking.  He  was  not  popular 
at  the  Cross-Roads,  having  the  unen- 
viable reputation  of  being  a  "  born 
tease/'  but  any  diversion  was  welcome 
on  such  a  dull  day. 

In  the  catalogue  of  queer  characters 
which  every  neighbourhood  possesses, 
the  Autocrat,  Bore,  and  Crank  may  take 
precedence  of  all  others  alphabetically, 
but  the  one  that  heads  the  list  in  dis- 
agreeableness  is  that  infliction  on  so- 
ciety known  as  the  "  born  tease."  One 
can  forgive  the  teasing  propensity 
universally  found  in  boys,  as  he  would 
condone  the  playful  destructiveness  of 
puppyhood ;  something  requiring  only 
temporary  forbearance.  But  when  that 
trait  refuses  to  be  put  away  with  child- 
ish things  it  makes  of  the  man  it  domi- 
76 


at  tbe  Cros0*roafc0 


nates  a  sort  of  human  mosquito.  He 
regards  every  one  in  reach  his  lawful 
prey,  from  babies  to  octogenarians,  and 
while  he  does  not  always  sting,  the  per- 
sistency of  his  annoying  attacks  be- 
comes exasperating  beyond  endurance. 

The  same  motive  that  made  Henry 
Bicking  pull  cats'  whiskers  out  by  the 
roots  when  he  was  a  boy,  led  him  to 
keep  his  children  in  a  turmoil,  and  his 
sensitive  little  wife  in  tears  half  the 
time.  He  had  scarcely  seated  himself 
by  the  stove  when  he  was  afforded 
opportunity  for  his  usual  pastime  by 
the  entrance  of  half  a  dozen  children, 
who  came  tumbling  in  on  their  way 
home  from  school  to  warm. 

He  began  with  a  series  of  those 
inane  questions  by  which  grown  people 
have  made  themselves  largely  responsi- 
ble for  the  pertness  of  the  younger 
generation.  If  children  of  this  day 
77 


H0a  Holmes 


have  departed  from  that  delectable 
state  wherein  they  were  seen  and  not 
heard,  the  fault  is  due  far  more  to  their 
elders  than  to  them.  Often  they  have 
been  made  self-conscious,  and  forced 
into  saucy  self-assertion  by  the  teasing 
questions  that  are  asked  merely  to  pro- 
voke amusing  replies. 

Henry  Bicking's  quizzing  had  an 
element  of  cruelty  in  it.  His  was  the 
kind  that  pinches  his  victims'  ears,  that 
tickles  to  the  verge  of  agony,  that 
threatens  all  sorts  of  disagreeable  things, 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  little  faces  blanch 
with  fright,  or  eyes  fill  with  tears  of 
pain. 

"  Come  here,  Woodpecker,"  he  be- 
gan, reaching  for  a  child  whose  red 
hair  was  the  grief  of  his  existence. 
But  the  boy  deftly  eluded  him,  and 
the  little  fellow  standing  next  in  line, 
drying  his  snowball-soaked  mittens, 

78 


at  tbe  Cro0s-roat>0 


became  the  victim.  He  was  dragged 
unwillingly  to  his  tormentor's  knee. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  be  when 
you're  a  man  ? "  was  demanded,  when 
the  first  questions  had  elicited  the  fact 
that  the  child's  name  was  Sammy  Per- 
kins, and  that  he  was  eight  years  old. 
But  Perkins's  oldest,  having  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  grammar  of  life  beyond  its 
present  tense  indicative,  hung  his  head 
and  held  his  tongue  at  mention  of  its 
future  potential. 

"  If  you  don't  tell  me  you  sha'n't 
have  your  mittens  !  '  Bicking  dangled 
them  tantalisingly  out  of  reach,  until, 
after  an  agonising  and  unsuccessful 
scramble,  the  child  was  forced  into  a 
tearful  reply. 

Then  he  began  again  :  "  Which  are 
you  for,  Democrats  or  Republicans  ? " 

"  Ain't  for  neither." 

"  Well,  you're  the  littlest  mugwump 
79 


Hsa  Holmes 


I  ever  did  see.  Mugwumps  ain't  got 
any  right  to  wear  mittens.  I've  a 
notion  to  pitch  'em  in  the  stove." 

"Oh,  dorit!"  begged  the  child. 
"  Please,  mister !  I'm  not  a  mug- 
wump !  " 

The  tragic  earnestness  of  the  child 
as  he  disclaimed  all  right  to  the  term 
of  reproach  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand, yet  repudiated  because  of  its 
obnoxious  sound,  amused  the  man 
hugely.  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed. 

"Tell  me  who  you  holler  for !  "  he 
continued,  catching  him  up  and  hold- 
ing him  head  downward  a  moment. 
Then  goaded  by  more  teasing  ques- 
tions and  a  threatenin  swing  of  his 
red  mittens  toward  the  stove  door, 
Perkins's  oldest  was  at  last  led  to  take 
a  bold  stand  on  his  party  platform,  and 
publicly  declare  his  political  preference. 
80 


at  tbe  Cross^roafcs 


But  it  was  in  a  shaking  voice  and  be- 
tween frightened  sobs. 

"  M-ma,  she's  for  McKinley,  an' 
p-pap,  he's  for  B-Bryan,  so  I  jus'  holler 
for  Uncle  Sam  !  " 

"  Good  enough  for  you,  sonny," 
laughed  the  storekeeper.  "  That's  true 
blue  Americanism.  Stick  to  Uncle 
Sam  and  never  mind  the  parties. 
They've  had  new  blades  put  on  their 
old  handles,  and  new  handles  put  on 
those  old  blades  again,  till  none  of  'em 
are  what  we  started  out  with.  We 
keep  on  calling  them  '  genuine  Bar- 
lows,' but  it's  precious  little  of  the 
original  Barlows  we're  hanging  on  to 
nowadays." 

It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  inter- 
rupted the  conversation.  Mrs.  Teddy 
Mahone  had  come  in  for  some  tea. 

"  Arrah,  Misther  Bicking  !  Give  the 
81 


H0a  Holmes 


bye  his  mitts !  You're  worrse  than  a 
cat  with  a  mouse." 

The  loud  voice  with  its  rich  Irish 
brogue  drew  Cy  Akers's  attention  from 
his  newspaper.  "  By  the  way,  Bud," 
he  exclaimed,  raising  his  voice  so  that 
Mrs.  Mahone  could  not  fail  to  hear, 
"  you  were  complaining  about  March 
being  so  dull  and  commonplace  with- 
out any  holidays.  You've  forgotten 
St.  Patrick's  Day." 

"  No,  I  haven't.  St.  Patrick  is  noth- 
ing to  me.  There's  no  reason  I  should 
take  any  interest  in  him." 

"And  did  you  hear  that,  Mrs.  Ma- 
hone,"  asked  Henry  Bicking,  anxious 
to  start  a  war  of  words. 

"  Oh,  Oi  heard  it,  indade  Oi  did !  " 
she  answered  with  a  solemn  shake  of 
the  head.  "  It  grieves  the  hearrt  of  me 
to  hear  such  ingratichude.  There's 
niver  a  sowl  in  all  Ameriky  but  has 
82 


Ht  tbe 


cause  to  be  grateful  for  what  he's  done 
for  this  counthry." 

"  What's  he  ever  done?"  asked  Bud, 
skeptically.  There  was  a  twinkle  in 
Mrs.  Mahone's  eyes  as  she  answered : 

"  It  was  this  way.  A  gude  while 
back  whin  it  was  at  the  beginnin'  iv 
things,  Ameriky  said  to  herself  wan 
day,  '  It's  a  graand  pudding  Oi'll  be 
afther  makin'  meself,  by  a  new  resait 
Oi've  just  thought  iv.'  So  she  dips 
into  this  counthry  for  wan  set  iv  immy- 
grants,  an'  into  another  counthry  for 
another  batch,  and  after  a  bit  a  foine 
mess  she  had  iv  'em.  Dutch  an*  Frinch 
an'  Eyetalian,  Rooshian,  Spaniards  an* 
haythen  Chinee,  all  stirred  up  in  wan 
an'  the  same  pudding-bag. 

"  '  Somethin's  lackin','  siz  she,  afther 
awhile,  makin'  a  wry  face. 

"  « It's  the  spice,'  siz  St.  Pathrick,  « ye 
lift  out  iv  it,  an'  the  leaven.  Ye'll 
83 


have  to  make  parsinal  application  to 
meself  for  it,  for  Oi'm  the  only  wan 
knowin'  the  saicret  of  where  it's  to  be 
found.' 

" '  Then  give  me  some,'  siz  she,  an' 
St.  Pathrick,  not  loikin'  to  lave  a  leddy 
in  trouble,  reached  out  from  the  auld 
sod  and  handed  her  a  fair  shprinklin' 
of  them  as  would  act  as  both  spice  an' 
leaven. 

"  '  They'll  saison  the  whole  lot,'  siz 
he,  'an'  there's  light-heartedness  enough 
among  them  to  raise  the  entoire  heavy 
mass  in  your  whole  united  pudding- 
bag.' 

" '  Thanks/  siz  she,  stirrin'  us  in. 
'  It's  the  makin'  of  the  dish,  sorr,  and 
Oi'm  etarnally  obliged  to  ye,  sorr. 
Oi'll  be  afther  puttin'  the  name  of  St. 
Pathrick  in  me  own  family  calendar, 
and  ivery  year  on  that  day,  it's  the  pick 
iv  the  land  that'll  take  pride  in  addin' 
84 


at  tbe  Cross^roafce 


tc    me     own    shtars    an'    shtripes    the 
wtarin'  o'  the  green.' 

"  Ye  see,  Misther  Hines,  ye  may 
think  ye're  under  no  parsinal  obliga- 
tion to  him,  but  down-hearted  as  ye 
are  by  nature,  what  wud  ye  have  been 
had  ye  niver  coom  in  conthact  with 
the  leaven  of  St.  Pathrick  at  all,  sorr  ? 
Oi  ask  ye  that." 

Late  that  night  Bowser  pushed  his 
ledger  aside  with  a  yawn,  and  got 
down  from  his  high  stool  to  close  the 
store.  As  he  counted  the  meagre  con- 
tents of  the  cash  drawer,  he  reviewed 
the  day,  whose  minutes  had  been  as 
monotonous  in  passing  as  the  falling 
of  the  snowflakes  outside.  It  had  left 
nothing  behind  it  to  distinguish  it  from 
a  hundred  other  days.  The  same  old 
faces  !  The  same  kind  of  jokes !  The 
same  round  of  commonplace  duties  !  A 
85 


Hea  Holmes 


spirit  of  unrest  seized  him,  that  made 
him  chafe  against  such  dreary  monot- 
ony. 

When  he  went  to  the  door  to  put 
up  the  shutters,  the  beauty  of  the 
night  held  him  a  moment,  and  he 
stood  looking  across  the  wide  fields, 
lying  white  in  moonlight  and  snow. 
Far  down  the  road  a  lamp  gleamed 
from  the  window  of  an  upper  room  in 
the  old  miller's  house,  where  anxious 
vigil  had  been  kept  beside  him  for 
hours.  The  crisis  was  passed  now. 
Only  a  little  while  before,  the  doctor 
had  stopped  by  to  say  that  their  old 
friend  would  live.  Down  the  track 
a  gleaming  switch-light  marked  the 
place  where  a  wreck  had  been  narrowly 
averted  that  morning. 

"  And  no  telling  how  many  other 
misfortunes  we've  escaped  to-day," 
mused  Bowser.  "  Maybe  if  a  light 
86 


at  tbc 


could  be  swung  out  for  each  one,  folks 
would  see  that  the  dull  gray  days  when 
nothing  happens  are  the  ones  to  be 
most  thankful  for,  after  all/* 


Hsa  Holmes 


Cbapter  ID1J 


APRIL  sunshine  of  mid-afternoon 
poured  in  through  the  open  door 
of  the  Cross-Roads.  The  usual 
group  of  loungers  had  gathered  around 
the  rusty  stove.  There  was  no  fire  in 
it ;  the  day  was  too  warm  for  that, 
but  force  of  habit  made  them  draw 
their  chairs  about  it  in  a  circle,  as  if 
this  common  centre  were  the  hub, 
from  which  radiated  the  spokes  of  all 
neighbourly  intercourse. 

The  little  schoolmistress  was  under 
discussion.  Her  short  reign  in  District 
No.  3  had  furnished  a  topic  of  conver- 
sation as  inexhaustible  as  the  weather, 
for  her  regime  was  attended  by  startling 
changes.  Luckily  for  her,  the  young 
ideas  enjoyed  being  taught  to  shoot  at 
wide  variance  from  the  targets  set  up 
88 


Et  tbe  Crose^roafcs 


by  parental  practice  and  tradition,  else 
the  tales  told  out  of  school  might  have 
aroused  more  adverse  criticism  than 
they  did. 

"  You  can't  take  much  stock  in  her 
new-fangled  notions,"  was  the  unani- 
mous opinion  at  the  Cross-Roads.  She 
had  "  put  the  cart  before  the  horse  " 
when  she  laid  the  time-honoured  alpha- 
bet on  the  shelf,  and  gave  the  primer 
class  a  whole  word  at  a  mouthful,  be- 
fore it  had  cut  a  single  orthographic 
tooth  on  such  primeval  syllables  as 
a-b  ab. 

"  Look  at  my  Willie,"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  district  fathers.  "  Beating 
around  the  bush  with  talk  about  a  pic- 
ture cow,  and  a  real  cow,  and  a  word 
cow,  and  not  knowing  whether  B  comes 
after  W  or  X.  At  his  age  I  could  say 
the  alphabet  forwards  or  backwards  as 
fast  as  tongue  could  go  without  a  slip." 
89 


H0a  Holmes 


"  She's  done  one  sensible  thing,"  ad- 
mitted Cy  Akers.  "They  tell  me 
she's  put  her  foot  down  on  the  scholars 
playing  April  fool  tricks  this  year." 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  said  Henry  Bick- 
ing.  "  It  has  been  one  of  the  customs 
in  this  district  since  the  schoolhouse 
was  built.  What's  the  harm  if  the 
children  do  take  one  day  in  the  year 
for  a  little  foolishness  ?  Let  them  have 
their  fun,  I  say." 

"  But  they've  carried  it  too  far,"  was 
the  answer.  "  It's  scandalous  they 
should  be  allowed  to  abuse  people's 
rights  and  feelings  and  property  as 
they  have  done  the  last  few  years. 
First  of  April  doesn't  justify  such  cut- 
ting up  any  more  than  the  first  of 
August." 

"She's  got  Scripture  on  her  side," 
said  Squire  Dobbs.  "  You  know  Solo- 
mon says,  '  As  a  mad  man  who  casteth 
90 


Ht  tbe  Cross^roafcs 


firebrands,  arrows,  and  death,  so  is  the 
man  that  deceiveth  his  neighbour  and 
saith,  am  I  not  in  sport  ? ' 

"  She  can't  stamp  out  such  a  deep- 
rooted  custom  in  one  day,"  protested 
Bicking. 

"  You  can  bet  on  the  little  school- 
ma'am  every  time,"  laughed  Bowser. 
"  My  daughter  Milly  says  they  didn't 
have  regular  lessons  yesterday  afternoon. 
She  had  them  put  their  books  in  their 
desks. 

"  Said  they'd  been  studying  about 
wise  men  all  their  lives,  now  they'd 
study  about  fools  awhile ;  the  fools  of 
Proverbs  and  the  fools  of  history. 

"  She  read  some  stories,  too,  about  a 
cruel  disappointment  and  the  troubles 
brought  about  by  some  thoughtless 
jokes  on  the  first  of  April.  Mighty 
interesting  stories,  Milly  said.  You 
could  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  and  some 


Haa  SHoImes 


of  the  girls  cried.  Then  she  drew  a 
picture  on  the  blackboard  of  a  court 
jester,  in  cap  and  bells,  and  asked  if 
they  wouldn't  like  a  change  this  year. 
Instead  of  everybody  acting  the  fool 
and  doing  silly  things  they'd  all  be 
ashamed  of  if  they'd  only  stop  to  think, 
wouldn't  they  rather  she'd  appoint  just 
one  scholar  to  play  the  fool  for  all  of 
them,  as  the  old  kings  used  to  do. 

"  They  agreed  to  that,  quick  enough, 
thinking  what  fun  they'd  have  teasing 
the  one  chosen  to  be  it.  Then  she 
said  she'd  appoint  the  first  one  this 
morning  who  showed  himself  most 
deserving  of  the  office.  Milly  says 
from  the  way  she  smiled  when  she  said 
it,  they're  all  sure  she  means  to  choose 
the  first  one  who  plays  an  April  Fool 
joke.  She'd  put  it  so  strong  to  Jem 
how  silly  it  was,  that  there  ain't  a 
child  in  school  you  could  hire  to  run 
92 


at  tbe  <Tro00*roa&0 


the  risk  of  being  appointed  fool  for  the 
day.  So  I  think  she's  coming  out 
ahead  as  usual." 

"  After  all,"  said  Bud  Hines,  "  there's 
some  lessons  to  be  got  out  of  those  old 
tricks  we  used  to  play.  For  instance, 
the  pocketbook  tied  to  a  string.  Seems 
to  me  that  everything  in  life  worth 
having  has  a  string  tied  to  it,  and  just 
as  I  am  about  to  pick  it  up,  Fate 
snatches  it  out  of  my  hands." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  Buddy,"  said 
Bowser,  cheerfully ;  "  you  take  notice 
those  pocketbooks  on  strings  are  al- 
ways empty  ones,  and  they  don't 
belong  to  us,  so  we  have  no  business 
grabbing  for  them  or  feeling  disap- 
pointed because  we  can't  get  something 
for  nothing." 

But  Bud  waved  aside  the  interruption 
mechanically. 

"  Then  there's  the  gifts  with  strings 

93 


Hsa  Holmes 


tied  to  'em,"  he  continued.  "  My  wife 
has  a  rich  aunt  who  is  always  sending  her 
presents,  and  writing,  *  Understand  this 
is  for  you,  Louisy.  You're  too  gener- 
ous, and  I  don't  want  anybody  but  your 
own  deserving  self  to  wear  this.'  Now 
out  in  the  country  here,  my  wife 
doesn't  have  occasion  to  wear  hand- 
some clothes  like  them  once  a  year, 
while  they'd  be  the  very  thing  for 
Clara  May,  off  at  Normal  School.  But 
not  a  feather  or  a  ribbon  can  the  child 
touch  because  her  great-aunt  bought 
them  expressly  for  her  ma.  Goodness 
knows  she'd  have  a  thousand  times 
more  pleasure  in  seeing  Clara  May 
enjoy  them,  than  knowing  they  were 
lying  away  in  bureau  drawers  doing 
nobody  any  good.  When  she  takes 
'em  out  at  house-cleaning  times  I  say, 
'  Ma,'  says  I,  '  deliver  me  from  gifts 
with  strings  tied  to  'em.  I'd  rather 
94 


at  tbe  <Iro00*roat>s 


have  a  ten-cent  bandanna,  all  mine,  to 
have  and  to  hold  or  to  give  away  as 
pleased  me  most,  than  the  finest  things 
your  Aunt  Honigford's  money  could 
buy,  if  I  had  to  account  to  her  every 
time  I  turned  around  in  them.* 

"  When  I  give  anything  I  give  it, 
and  don't  expect  to  come  back,  spying 
around  ten  years  afterward  to  see  if 
it's  worn  out,  or  cracked,  or  faded,  or 
broken.  That's  my  doctrine." 

Marion  Holmes,  driving  along  the 
country  road  in  the  old  miller's  anti- 
quated chaise,  drew  rein  in  front  of  a 
low  picket  gate,  overhung  by  mammoth 
snowball  bushes.  Down  the  path,  be- 
tween the  rows  of  budding  lilacs  and 
japonicas,  came  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
quaintly  cut,  long-tailed  coat.  He  was 
stepping  along  nimbly,  although  he 
leaned  hard  on  his  gold-headed  cane. 
95 


H0a  Holmes 


" '  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country 
dear/ J '  quoted  Marion  softly  to  her- 
self as  the  minister's  benign  face  smiled 
a  greeting  through  his  big  square- 
bowed  spectacles.  "  I  know  he  must 
have  been  Goldsmith's  friend,  and  I 
wish  I  dared  ask  him  how  long  he 
lived  in  the  Deserted  Village."  But 
all  she  called  out  to  him  as  he  stopped 
with  a  courtly  bow,  under  the  snow- 
ball bushes,  was  a  cheery  good  morning 
and  an  invitation  to  take  a  seat  beside 
her  if  he  wanted  to  drive  to  the  Cross- 
Roads  store. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Polly,"  he  an- 
swered, "  that  is  my  destination.  I  am 
on  my  way  there  for  a  text." 

"For  a  what?"  exclaimed  Marion 
in  surprise,  turning  the  wheel  for  him 
to  step  in  beside  her. 

"  For  a  text  for  my  Easter  sermon," 
he  explained  as  they  drove  on  in  the 
96 


at  tbe 


warm  April  sunshine.  "  Ah,  I  see, 
Miss  Polly,  you  have  not  discovered  the 
school  of  philosophers  that  centres 
around  the  Cross-Roads  store.  Well, 
it's  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  few  people 
do.  I  spent  a  winter  in  Rome,  when 
I  was  younger,  and  one  of  my  favourite 
walks  was  up  on  the  Pincian  Hill. 
The  band  plays  in  the  afternoons,  you 
know,  and  tourists  flock  to  see  the 
queen  drive  by.  There  is  a  charming 
view  from  the  summit  —  the  dome  of 
St.  Peters  against  the  blue  Italian  sky, 
the  old  yellow  Tiber  crawling  along 
under  its  bridges  from  ruin  to  ruin, 
and  the  immortal  city  itself,  climbing 
up  its  historic  hills.  And  on  the  Pin- 
cio  one  meets  everybody,  —  soldiers  and 
courtiers,  flower  girls  and  friars,  monks 
in  robes  of  every  order,  and  pilgrims 
from  all  parts  of  the  world. 

"The  first  time  I  was  on  the  hill, 
97 


H0a  Holmes 


as  I  wandered  among  the  shrubbery  and 
flowers,  I  noticed  a  row  of  moss-grown 
pedestals  set  along  each  side  of  the 
drive  for  quite  a  distance.  Each  ped- 
estal bore  the  weather-beaten  bust  of 
some  old  sage  or  philosopher  or  hero. 

"  They  made  no  more  impres- 
sion on  my  mind  then,  than  so  many 
fence-posts,  but  later  I  found  a  work- 
man repairing  the  statuary  one  day. 
He  had  put  a  new  nose  on  the  muti- 
lated face  of  an  old  philosopher,  and 
that  fresh  white  nasal  appendage,  stand- 
ing out  jauntily  in  the  middle  of  the 
ancient  gray  visage,  was  so  ludicrous 
I  could  not  help  smiling  whenever  I 
passed  it.  I  began  to  feel  acquainted 
with  the  old  fellow,  as  day  after  day 
that  nose  forced  my  attention.  Some- 
times, coming  upon  him  suddenly,  the 
only  familiar  face  in  a  city  full  of 
strangers,  I  felt  that  he  was  an  old 
98 


Ht  tbe  Cro09*roat>0 


friend  to  whom  I  should  take  off  my 
hat.  Then  it  became  so  that  I  rarely 
passed  him  without  recalling  some  of 
his  wise  sayings  that  I  had  read  at  col- 
lege. Many  a  time  he  and  his  row  of 
stony-eyed  companions  were  an  inspira- 
tion to  me  in  that  way. 

"  It  was  so  that  I  met  these  men  at 
the  Cross-Roads.  They  scarcely  claimed 
my  attention  at  first.  Then  one  day 
I  heard  one  of  them  give  utterance  to 
a  time-worn  truth  in  such  an  original 
way  that  I  stopped  to  talk  to  him. 

"Trite  as  it  was,  he  had  hewn  it 
himself  out  of  the  actual  experiences 
of  his  own  life.  It  was  the  result  of 
his  own  keen  observation  of  human 
nature.  Set  as  it  was  in  his  homely, 
uncouth  dialect,  it  impressed  me  with 
startling  force.  Then  I  listened  to  his 
companions,  and  found  that  they,  too, 
were  sometimes  wo.  thy  of  pedestals. 
99 


Hsa  Holmes 


Unconsciously  to  themselves  they  have 
often  given  me  suggestions  for  my  ser- 
mons. Ah,  it's  a  pity  that  the  back- 
woods has  no  Pincio  on  which  to  give 
its  philosophers  to  posterity  !  " 

Half  an  hour  later  as  they  drove 
homeward,  Marion  glanced  at  her  com- 
panion. "  No  text  this  time,"  she 
laughed,  breaking  the  reverie  into 
which  the  old  minister  had  fallen. 
"  Your  sages  said  nothing  but  '  good 
morning,  sir,'  and  there  wasn't  a  single 
suggestion  of  Easter  in  the  whole  store, 
except  the  packages  of  egg  dyes,  and 
some  impossible  little  chocolate  rabbits. 
Oh,  yes,  —  those  two  little  boys  playing 
on  the  doorstep.  Tommy  Bowser  had 
evidently  taken  time  by  the  forelock 
and  sampled  his  father's  dyes,  for  he 
had  a  whole  hatful  of  coloured  eggs, 
and  was  teaching  that  little  Perkins 
100 


Ht  tbc 


boy  how  to  play  'bust/  He  was  an 
apt  scholar,  for  while  I  watched  he 
won  five  of  Tommy's  eggs  and  never 
cracked  his  own.  You  should  have 
seen  them." 

"  Oh,  I  saw  them,"  said  the  minister, 
with  a  smile.  "It  was  those  same 
little  lads  who  suggested  the  text  for 
my  Easter  sermon." 

Marion  gave  a  gasp  of  astonishment. 
"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  ?  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  It  came  about  very  naturally.  There 
they  stood  with  their  hands  full  of  the 
Easter  eggs,  with  never  a  thought  of 
what  they  symbolised  —  the  breaking 
shell  -  -  the  rising  of  this  little  embryo 
earth-existence  to  the  free  full-winged 
life  of  the  Resurrection.  They  were 
too  intent  on  their  little  game,  on  their 
small  winnings  and  losings,  to  have  a 
thought  for  higher  things.  As  I 
101 


Hsa  Holmes 


watched  them  it  occurred  to  me  how 
typical  it  was  of  all  the  children  of 
men,  and  instantly  that  text  from  Luke 
flashed  into  my  mind  :  *  Their  eyes  were 
holden!  Do  you  remember  ?  It  was 
when  the  two  disciples  went  down  to 
Emmaus.  I  often  picture  it,"  mused  the 
old  man  after  a  little  pause.  "  The  green 
of  the  olive  groves,  the  red  and  white 
of  the  blossoming  almond-trees,  the 
late  afternoon  sunshine,  and  those  two 
discouraged  fishermen  trudging  along 
the  dusty  road.  They  were  turning 
away  from  a  lost  cause  and  a  buried 
hope,  too  absorbed  in  their  overwhelm- 
ing grief  to  see  that  it  was  the  risen 
Lord  Himself  who  walked  beside  them. 
Not  till  the  end  of  their  journey  did 
they  know  why  it  was  that  their  hearts 
had  burned  within  them  as  He  talked 
with  them  by  the  way.  Their  eyes 
were  holden. 

102 


Ht  tbc 


"  How  typical  that  is,  too,  Miss 
Polly.  Sometimes  we  go  on  to  the 
end  of  life,  missing  the  comfort  and 
help  that  we  might  have  had  at  every 
step,  because  we  look  up  at  our  Lord 
only  through  eyes  of  clay,  and  hold 
communion  with  him  as  with  a  stranger. 
Yes,  I  shall  certainly  make  that  the 
subject  of  my  Easter  sermon,  Miss 
Polly.  Thank  you  for  helping  me 
discover  it." 

That  next  Sunday  as  Marion  sat  in 
church  beside  the  old  miller,  her  gaze 
wandered  from  the  lilies  in  the  chancel 
to  the  faces  of  the  waiting  congrega- 
tion. Bud  Hines  was  there  and  Bow- 
ser, Cy  Akers,  and  even  Perkins's 
oldest,  whose  game  of  "  bust "  had 
suggested  the  helpful  sermon  of  the 
morning.  Marion  studied  the  serious, 
weather-beaten  faces  with  new  interest. 
"  It  is  not  in  spiritual  things  alone 
103 


H0a  Holmes 


that  our  eyes  are  holden,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  I  have  been  looking  at  only 
the  commonplace  exterior  of  these 
people.  It  takes  a  man  like  the  old 
minister  to  recognise  unpedestalled  vir- 
tues and  to  set  them  on  the  Pincio  they 
deserve/' 


104 


Ht  tbe  <Tro00*roa&0 


Cbapter  Dflfl 


THE  old  saying  that  "  there  are 
always  two  sides  to  a  story  "  has 
worn  a  deep  rut  into  the  pop- 
ular mind.  It  has  been  handed  down 
to  us  so  often  with  an  air  of  virtuous 
rebuke,  that  we  have  come  to  regard 
the  individual  who  insists  on  his  two- 
sided  theory  as  the  acme  of  all  that  is 
broad-minded  and  tolerant.  But  in 
point  of  fact,  if  two  sides  is  all  he  sees, 
he  is  only  one  remove  from  the  bigot 
whose  mental  myopia  limits  him  to  a 
single  narrow  facet. 

Even  such  a  thing  as  a  May-day 
picnic  is  polyhedral.  The  little  school- 
mistress, who  was  the  chief  promoter 
of  the  one  at  the  Cross-Roads,  would 
have  called  it  a  parallelepiped,  if  she 
had  been  there  that  morning,  to  have 
105 


H0a  Holmes 


seen  the  different  expressions  portrayed 
on  the  faces  of  six  people  who  were 
interested  in  it. 

The  business  side  of  the  picnic  ap- 
pealed to  Bowser.  As  he  bustled 
around,  dusting  off  cases  of  tinned 
goods  that  he  had  long  doubted  his 
ability  to  dispose  of,  and  climbed  to 
the  top  shelves  for  last  summer's  shop- 
worn cans  of  sardines  and  salmon,  as  he 
sliced  cheese,  and  counted  out  the  little 
leathery  lemons  that  time  had  shrivelled, 
his  smile  was  as  bland  as  the  May 
morning  itself.  One  could  plainly  see 
that  he  regarded  this  picnic  as  a  special 
dispensation  of  Providence,  to  help  him 
work  off  his  old  stock. 

There  were  no  loungers  in  the  store. 
Field  and  garden  claimed  even  the 
idlest,  and  only  the  old  miller,  who  had 
long  ago  earned  his  holiday,  sat  in  the 
sun  on  the  porch  outside,  with  his  chair 
1 06 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roafc0 


tipped  back  against  the  wall.  At  inter- 
vals a  warm  breath  from  the  apple  or- 
chard, in  bloom  across  the  road,  touched 
his  white  hair  in  passing,  and  stirred  his 
memory  until  he  sat  oblivious  of  his  sur- 
roundings. He  was  wholly  unmindful 
of  the  gala  stir  about  him,  save  when 
Polly  recalled  his  wandering  thoughts. 
She,  keenly  alive  to  every  sensation  of 
the  present,  stood  beside  him  with  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  while  she  waited 
for  her  picnic  basket  to  be  filled. 

"  Isn't  it  an  ideal  May-day,  grand- 
father ? "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  gives 
me  a  real  Englishy  feeling  of  skylarks 
and  cuckoos  and  cowslips,  of  primroses 
and  village  greens.  I  think  it  is  dear 
of  the  little  school-ma'am  to  resurrect 
the  old  May-pole  dance,  and  give  the 
children  some  idea  of  '  Merrie  old 
England '  other  than  the  dates  and 
dust  of  its  ancient  history."  Uncon- 
107 


Hsa  Holmes 


sciously  beating  time  with  light  finger- 
tips on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  she 
began  to  hum  half  under  her  breath : 

" '  And  then  my  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffbdills-o-dills  — 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils !  '  " 

Suddenly  she  broke  off"  with  a  girl- 
ish giggle  of  enjoyment.  "  Listen, 
grandfather.  There's  little  Cora  Bow- 
ser up-stairs,  rehearsing  her  speech 
while  she  dresses.  Isn't  it  delicious  to 
be  behind  the  scenes  !  " 

Through  an  open  bedroom  window, 
a  high-pitched,  affected  little  voice 
came  shrilly  down  to  them  :  "  '  If  you're 
wtf-king,  call  me  early  !  Call  me  early, 
mother  dear ! ' 

"  Now,  Cora,"  interrupted  the  ma- 
ternal critic,  "you  went  and  forgot 
to  make  your  bow;  and  how  many 
times  have  I  told  you  about  turning 
108 


Ht  tbe 


your  toes  out  ?  You'll  have  to  begin 
all  over  again.*'  Then  followed  sev- 
eral beginnings,  each  brought  to  a  stop 
by  other  impatient  criticisms.  There 
were  so  many  pauses  in  the  rehearsal 
and  reminders  to  pay  attention  to 
manners,  commas,  and  refractory  rib- 
bons, that  when  Cora  was  finally 
allowed  to  proceed,  it  was  in  a  tearful 
voice  punctuated  with  sobs,  that  she 
declared,  " '  To-morrow  will  be  the 
ha-happiest  day  of  all  the  g-glad  new 
year/  " 

" '  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears 
the  crown/ "  quoted  the  old  miller 
with  a  smile,  as  Mrs.  Bowser's  parting 
injunction  reached  their  ears. 

"  Now,  Cora,  for  goodness'  sake, 
don't  you  forget  for  one  minute  this 
whole  enduring  day,  that  them  daisies 
on  your  crown  came  off  your  teacher's 
best  hat,  and  have  to  be  put  back  on. 
109 


Hsa  Holmes 


If  you  move  around  much  to  the  picnic 
you  might  lose  some  of  'em.  Best 
keep  pretty  quiet  anyway,  or  your  sash 
will  come  unpinned,  and  the  crimp 
will  all  get  out  of  your  hair.  Wish  I'd 
thought  to  iron  them  plaits  before  I 
unbraided  'em.  They'd  have  been 
lots  frizzier." 

It  was  a  very  stiffly  starched,  precise 
little  Queen  o'  the  May  who  came 
down  the  steep  back  stairs  into  the 
store.  She  stepped  like  a  careful  pea- 
cock, fearing  to  ruffle  a  feather  of  her 
unrivalled  splendour.  Her  straight 
flaxen  hair,  usually  as  limp  as  a  string, 
stood  out  in  much  crimped  profusion 
from  under  her  gilt  paper  crown. 
Polly  could  not  decide  whether  the 
pucker  on  the  little  forehead  came 
from  anxiety  concerning  the  bor- 
rowed daisies  which  starred  her  crown, 
or  the  fact  that  it  was  too  tightly 
no 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roab0 


skewered  to  the  royal  head  by  a  relent 
less  hat-pin. 

One  of  the  picnic  wagons  was  wait- 
ing at  the  door,  and  as  Bowser  lifted 
her  in  among  her  envious  and  admir- 
ing schoolmates,  Polly  saw  with  sym- 
pathetic insight  which  of  its  many 
sides  the  picnic  parallelepiped  was 
presenting  to  the  child  in  that  proud 
moment.  The  feeling  of  supreme  im- 
portance that  it  bestowed  is  a  joy  not 
permitted  to  all,  and  rarely  does  it 
come  to  any  mortal  more  than  once 
in  a  lifetime. 

But  for  every  Haman,  no  matter 
how  resplendent,  sits  an  unmoved  Mor- 
decai  in  the  king's  gate.  So  to  this 
little  Sheba  of  the  Cross-Roads  there 
was  one  who  bowed  not  down.  Per- 
kins's oldest,  on  the  front  seat  beside 
the  driver,  had  no  eyes  for  her.  He 
scarcely  looked  in  her  direction.  His 
in 


H0a  Holmes 


glances  were  all  centred  on  the  bas- 
kets which  Bowser  was  packing  in 
around  his  feet.  He  smelled  pickles 
and  pies  and  ham  sandwiches.  He 
knew  of  sundry  tarts  and  dressed  eggs 
in  his  own  basket,  and  wild  rumours 
had  reached  his  ears  that  Miss  Polly 
intended  to  stand  treat  to  the  extent 
of  Bowser's  entire  stock  of  bananas  and 
candy.  Aside  from  hopes  of  a  surrep- 
titious swim  in  the  creek  and  a  wild 
day  in  the  woods,  his  ideas  of  a  picnic 
were  purely  prandial. 

Across  the  road,  Miss  Anastasia  Dill, 
peeping  through  the  blinds,  watched  the 
wagon  rattle  off  with  its  merry  load. 
Long  after  the  laughing  voices  had 
passed  beyond  her  hearing,  she  still  stood 
there,  one  slender  hand  holding  back  the 
curtain,  and  the  other  shading  her  faded 
blue  eyes,  as  she  gazed  absently  after 
them.  It  was  the  sunshine  of  an- 

112 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*<roat>0 


other  May-day  she  was  looking  into. 
Presently  with  a  little  start  she  realised 
that  she  was  not  out  in  the  cool  green 
woods  with  a  May-basket  in  her  hands, 
brimming  over  with  anemones.  She 
was  all  alone  in  her  stuffy  little  parlour, 
with  its  hair-cloth  furniture  and  de- 
pressing crayon  portraits.  And  the 
canary  was  chirping  loudly  for  water, 
and  the  breakfast  cups  were  still  un- 
washed. But  for  once,  heedless  of  her 
duties,  even  unmindful  of  the  fact  that 
she  had  left  the  shutters  open,  and  the 
hot  sun  was  streaming  across  her  cher- 
ished store  carpet,  she  drew  a  chair  up 
to  the  marble-topped  centre  table,  and 
deliberately  sat  down.  There  was  a 
pile  of  old-fashioned  daguerreotypes  in 
front  of  her.  She  opened  them  one 
by  one,  and  then  took  up  another  that 
lay  by  itself  on  a  blue  beaded  mat. 
So  the  face  it  dimly  pictured  held  a 
"3 


Molme0 


sacred  place,  apart,  in  her  memory. 
When  her  eyes  had  grown  misty  with 
long  gazing,  she  lifted  a  book  from  its 
place  beside  the  family  Bible.  It  was 
bound  in  red  leather,  and  it  had  a 
quaint  wreath  of  embossed  roses  around 
the  gilt  letters  of  its  title,  "  The  Album 
of  the  Heart."  It  was  an  autograph 
album,  and  as  she  slowly  turned  the 
pages  she  remembered  that  every  hand 
that  had  traced  a  sentiment  or  a  signa- 
ture therein  had  once  upon  a  time 
gathered  anemones  with  her  in  some 
one  of  those  other  May-days. 

Then  she  turned  through  the  pages 
again.  Of  all  that  circle  of  early 
friends  not  one  was  left  to  give  her  a 
hand-clasp.  She  had  friends  in  plenty, 
but  the  old  ones  —  the  early  ones  — 
the  roots  of  whose  growth  had  twined 
with  hers  in  the  intimacy  known  only 
to  childhood,  were  all  gone.  The 
114 


Ht  tbe 


May-day  picnic  brought  only  a  throb 
of  pain  to  gentle  Miss  Anastasia,  for 
to  her  it  was  but  the  lonely  echo  of 
a  "  voice  that  was  still.'* 

Bud  Hines  watched  the  wagon  drive 
away  with  far  different  emotions. 
He  had  happened  to  come  into  the 
store  for  a  new  hoe,  as  the  gay  party 
started.  "  It's  all  foolishness,"  he 
grumbled  to  the  miller,  "  to  lose  a 
whole  day's  schooling  while  they  go 
gallivanting  around  the  country  for 
nothing.  They'll  ride  ten  miles  to 
find  a  place  to  eat  their  dinner  in,  and 
pass  by  twenty  on  the  way  nicer  than 
the  one  they  finally  pick  out.  They'd 
better  be  doing  sums  in  school,  or 
grubbing  weeds  out  of  the  garden,  in- 
stead of  playing  '  frog  in  the  meadow  ' 
around  a  fool  British  May-pole." 

He  looked  around  inquiringly  as  if 
he  expected  his  practical  listener  to 
"5 


Hsa  IHoImee 


agree  with  him.  But  all  the  sympathy 
he  got  from  the  old  miller  was  one  of 
the  innumerable  proverbs  he  seemed 
to  keep  continually  on  tap.  " '  All 
work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull 
boy/  Bud.  Life  is  apt  to  be  little  but 
sums  and  grubbing  for  the  youngsters 
by  and  by,  so  let  them  make  the  most 
of  their  May-days  now." 

The  sequels  of  picnics  are  also  poly- 
hedral. Miss  Anastasia,  lingering  at 
her  front  gate  in  the  early  twilight, 
that  she  might  enjoy  to  the  last  mo- 
ment the  orchard  odours  that  filled 
all  the  balcony  outdoors,  heard  the 
rattle  of  returning  wheels.  She  had 
had  a  pleasant  day,  despite  the  tearful 
retrospection  of  the  morning,  for  she 
had  attended  the  great  social  function 
of  the  neighbourhood,  the  monthly 
missionary  tea.  It  had  brought  im- 
116 


at  tbe  Cro00*roabe 


measurable  cheer,  and  now  she  was 
returning  with  a  comfortable  convic- 
tion that  she  was  to  be  envied  far  above 
any  of  her  neighbours.  The  conscious- 
ness of  having  on  her  best  gown,  of 
being  the  mistress  of  the  trim  little 
home  to  which  she  was  going,  of  free- 
dom from  a  hundred  harassing  cares 
that  she  had  heard  discussed  that  after- 
noon, all  combined  to  make  her  su- 
premely contented  with  her  lot. 

"  Poor  children,"  she  sighed,  as  the 
tired,  dirty  little  picnickers  were  lifted 
from  the  wagon  across  the  road. 
"  They  look  as  if  the  game  hadn't  been 
worth  the  candle.  I'm  glad  that  I've 
outgrown  such  things." 

Perkins's  oldest,  having  soaked  long 
in  the  cold  creek,  and  sampled  every 
dinner-basket  with  reckless  abandon 
till  he  could  sample  no  more,  sat 
doubled  up  in  the  straw  of  the  wagon- 
117 


H0a  Holmes 


bed.  He  was  white  about  the  mouth, 
and  had  he  been  called  upon  to  debate 
the  time-worn  question,  "  Resolved, 
that  there  is  more  pleasure  in  pursuit 
than  in  possession,"  the  tarts  and  sand- 
wiches of  that  day's  picnic  would  have 
furnished  several  dozen  indisputable 
arguments  for  the  affirmative. 

The  dishevelled  little  queen  sat  be- 
side him,  tired  out  by  her  day's  wild 
frolic,  with  starch  and  frizzes  all  gone. 

As  she  was  lifted  over  the  wheel,  and 
put  down  on  the  doorstep,  a  limp  little 
bunch  of  woe,  Miss  Anastasia  heard 
her  bewailing  her  fate.  She  had  lost 
the  stars  from  her  crown,  the  borrowed 
daisies  that  must  be  reckoned  for  on 
the  morrow.  The  amused  listener 
smiled  to  herself  under  cover  of  the 
twilight,  as  she  heard  Bowser's  awk- 
ward attempts  at  consolation,  for  all 
the  comfort  that  he  could  muster  was 
118 


at  tbe  (Troas^roabs 


an  old  saw  learned  from  the  miller : 
"  Never  mind,  Cora,  pa's  mighty  sorry 
for  his  little  girl.  But  you  know : 

" c  When  a  man  buys  meat  he  buys  bone, 
And  when  he  buys  land  he  buys  stone. 
You  must  take  the  bad  with  the  good.' " 


119 


Holme0 


Cbapter  ID1HH 


THERE  is  something  in  the  air 
of  June  that  stirs  even   insen- 
tient things  with  a  longing  to 
blossom.     Staid   old   universities   blaze 
out  with  the  gala  colours  of  commence- 
ment week,  when  the  month  of  roses 
is    ushered    in,  and    on    every  college 
campus  the  social  life   of  the  student 
year  comes  to  flower  in  the  crowning 
exercises  of  class-day. 

One  wonders  sometimes  if  the  roots, 
burrowing  underground  in  order  to 
fill  the  bush  overhead  with  myriads 
of  roses,  have  any  share  in  the  thrill  of 
success  at  having  produced  such  a 
wealth  of  sweetness  and  beauty.  But 
there  need  be  no  surmise  about  college 
florescence.  Faculties  may  beam  with 
complacency  on  their  yearly  cluster  of 
120 


at  tbe 


full-blown  graduates,  the  very  walls 
of  the  gray  old  universities  may  thrill 
as  they  echo  the  applause  of  admiring 
audiences,  but  the  greatest  pride  is  not 
felt  within  the  college  town  itself 
where  the  student  life  centres.  It  is 
back  in  the  roots  that  have  made  col- 
lege life  possible.  Back  in  some  pa- 
rental existence  that  daily  sinks  itself 
farther  into  the  commonplace  in  order 
that  some  son  or  daughter  may  blos- 
som into  the  culture  of  arts  and  belles- 
lettres.  The  Jacqueminot  that  flaunts 
its  glory  over  the  garden  wall  may  not 
sweeten  life  for  the  fibres  that  lift  it, 
but  the  valedictorian  who  flaunts  his 
diploma  and  degree  in  the  classic  halls 
of  some  sea-board  college  may  be 
glorifying  the  air  of  some  little  back- 
woods village  a  thousand  miles  inland. 
Even  the  Cross-Roads  are  bound  with 
a  network  of  such  far-reaching  roots 
121 


Hea  Holmes 


to  the  commencements  of  Harvard  and 
Yale. 

It  was  Cy  Akers's  boy  who  came 
home  this  June,  a  little  lifted  up,  per- 
haps, by  the  honours  he  had  won ; 
thoroughly  impressed  with  the  magni- 
tude of  his  own  knowledge  and  the 
meagreness  of  other  peoples',  but  hon- 
estly glad  at  first  to  get  back  to  the 
old  home  and  neighbours. 

The  family  pride  in  him  was  colos- 
sal. Old  Cy  encouraged  his  visits  to 
the  Cross-Roads  store,  inventing  excuses 
for  going  which  he  considered  the 
acme  of  subtle  diplomacy.  But  his 
motives  were  as  transparent  as  a  child's. 
Illiterate  himself,  he  wanted  his  neigh- 
bours to  see  what  college  had  done  for 
his  boy  in  the  way  of  raising  him  head 
and  shoulders  above  them  all.  And 
the  boy  was  good-naturedly  compliant. 
He  was  as  willing  to  show  off  men- 
122 


Ht  tbe 


tally  as  he  had  been  to  lend  a  hand  in 
the  wheat  harvest,  and  demonstrate 
what  football  training  had  done  for 
him  in  the  way  of  developing  muscle. 

Like  Perkins's  oldest,  his  education 
had  begun  with  the  primer  of  the 
Cross-Roads.  He  could  remember  the 
time  when  he,  too,  had  ignorantly 
believed  this  to  be  the  only  store  in 
the  universe,  and  wondered  if  there 
were  enough  people  living  to  consume 
all  its  contents.  Now  he  smiled  to 
himself  when  he  looked  around  the 
stuffy  little  room  and  saw  the  same  old 
butter  firkins  crowding  the  —  appar- 
ently—  same  old  calico  and  crockery, 
and  looked  up  at  the  half-dozen  hams 
still  swinging  sociably  from  the  low 
rafters. 

Time  had  been,  too,  when  he  thought 
the  men  who  gossiped  around  its  rusty 
stove  on  Saturday  afternoons  knew 
123 


H0a  Molmc0 


everything.  Like  Perkins's  oldest,  he 
had  unquestioningly  formulated  the 
creed  of  his  boyhood  from  their  con- 
versations, and  he  smiled  again  when 
he  recalled  how  he  had  been  warped 
in  those  early  days  by  their  prejudices 
and  short-sighted  opinions. 

The  smile  extended  outwardly  when 
he  walked  into  their  midst  to  find 
them  repeating  the  same  old  saws  about 
the  weather,  and  the  way  the  country 
was  going  to  the  dogs.  Yet  in  his 
salad  days  these  time-honoured  prog- 
nostications had  seemed  to  him  the 
wisdom  of  seers  and  sages. 

Probably  it  was  the  thought  that  he 
had  travelled  far  beyond  the  narrow 
confines  of  the  Cross-Roads  that  gave 
his  conversation  a  patronising  tone. 
But  the  Cross-Roads  refused  to  be 
patronised.  He  learned  that  on  the 
day  of  his  arrival.  It  was  the  first 
124 


Ht  tbe 


lesson  of  a  valuable  post-graduate  course. 
That  a  man  away  from  home  may 
be  Mister  Robert  Harrison  Hamilton 
Akers,  with  all  the  A.  B.'s  and  LL.  D.'s 
after  his  name  that  an  educational  insti- 
tution can  bestow  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  sets 
foot  again  on  his  native  heath,  where 
he  has  gone  through  the  vicissitudes  of 
boyhood,  he  is  shorn  of  titles  and  de- 
grees as  completely  as  Samson  was 
shorn  of  his  locks,  and  his  strength 
straightway  falls  from  him.  He  is 
nobody  but  Bobby  Akers,  and  every- 
body remembers  when  he  robbed  birds' 
nests,  and  stole  grapes,  and  played 
hooky,  and  was  a  little  freckle-faced, 
snub-nosed  neighbourhood  terror.  A 
man  cannot  maintain  his  importance 
long  in  the  face  of  such  reminiscences. 
No  amount  of  university  culture  is 
going  to  lay  the  ghost  of  youthful  in- 
discretions, and  he  might  as  well  put 
125 


Holmes 


his  patronising  proclivities  in  his 
pocket.  They  will  not  be  tolerated 
by  those  who  have  patted  him  on  the 
head  when  he  wore  roundabouts. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  but  it  was 
also  the  and  of  the  wheat-harvest,  and 
the  men  were  afield  who  usually  gath- 
ered on  the  Cross-Roads  porch  to 
round  up  the  week  over  their  pipes 
and  plugs  of  chewing  tobacco.  Only 
three  chairs  were  tilted  back  against 
the  wall,  and  on  these,  with  their  heels 
caught  over  the  front  rungs,  sat  Bow- 
ser, the  old  miller,  and  Robert  Akers. 

The  whirr  of  reaping  machines  came 
faintly  up  from  the  fields  and  near  by, 
where  several  acres  of  waving  yellow 
grain  still  stood  uncut,  a  bob-white 
whistled  cheerily.  No  one  was  talk- 
ing. "  Knee-deep  in  June"  would  have 
voiced  the  thoughts  of  the  trio,  for 
126 


Ht  tbc  Cross^roafcs 


they  were  "  Jes'  a  sort  o'  lazein'  there," 
with  their  hats  pulled  over  their  eyes, 
enjoying  to  the  utmost  the  perfect 
afternoon.  Every  breeze  was  redolent 
with  red  clover  and  wild  honeysuckle, 
and  vibrant  with  soothing  country 
sounds. 

"  Who  is  that  coming  up  the  road  ? " 
asked  the  miller,  as  a  team  and  wagon 
appeared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

"  They  wabble  along  like  Duncan 
Smith's  horses,"  answered  the  store- 
keeper, squinting  his  eyes  for  a  better 
view.  "  Yes,  that's  who  it  is.  That's 
Dunk  on  the  top  of  the  load.  Moving 
again,  bless  Pete  !  " 

As  the  wagon  creaked  slowly  nearer, 
a  feather  bed  came  into  view,  sur- 
mounting a  motley  collection  of  house- 
hold goods,  and  perched  upon  it,  high 
above  the  jangle  of  her  jolting  tins  and 
crockery,  sat  Mrs.  Duncan  Smith.  A 
127 


Hsa  Holmes 


clock  and  a  looking-glass  lay  in  her 
lap,  and,  like  a  wise  virgin,  in  her 
hands  she  carefully  bore  the  family 
lamp.  From  frequent  and  anxious 
turnings  of  her  black  sunbonnet,  it  was 
evident  that  she  was  keeping  her 
weather  eye  upon  the  chicken-coop, 
which  was  bound  to  the  tail-board  of 
the  wagon  by  an  ancient  clothes-line. 

A  flop-eared  dog  trotted  along  under 
the  wagon.  Squeezed  in  between  a 
bureau  and  the  feather  bed,  two  shock- 
headed  children  sat  on  a  flour  barrel, 
clutching  each  other  at  every  lurch  of 
the  crowded  van  to  keep  from  losing 
their  balance. 

"  Howdy,  Dunk  !  "  called  the  store- 
keeper, as  the  dusty  pilgrims  halted  in 
front  of  the  porch.  "  Where  are  you 
bound  now  ? " 

"  Over  to  the  old  Neal  place,"  an- 
swered the  man,  handing  the  reins  to 
128 


Ht  tbe  <Iro00-«roafc0 


his  wife,  and  climbing  stiffly  down 
over  the  wheel.  Going  around  to  the 
back  of  the  wagon,  he  unstrapped  a 
kerosene  can  which  swung  from  the 
pole  underneath. 

"  Gimme  a  gallon  of  coal-ile,  Jim," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  left  in 
the  dark  the  first  night,  anyway.  It 
takes  awhile  to  git  your  bearings  in  a 
strange  place,  and  it's  mighty  confusing 
to  butt  agin  a  half-open  door  where 
you've  always  been  used  to  a  plain 
wall,  and  it  hurts  like  fire  to  bark  your 
shins  on  a  rocking-chair  when  you're 
steering  straight  for  bed,  and  hain't  no 
idee  it's  in  the  road.  This  time  it'll 
be  a  little  more  so  than  usual,"  he 
added,  handing  over  the  can.  "  The 
house  backs  up  agin  a  graveyard,  you 
know.  Sort  o'  spooky  till  you  git 
used  to  it." 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  move  there 
129 


IHolmes 


for  ? "  asked  Bowser.  "  They  say  the 
place  is  ha'nted." 

"  To  my  mind  the  dead  make  better 
neighbours  than  the  living,"  came  the 
tart  reply  from  the  depths  of  the  black 
sunbonnet.  "  At  any  rate,  they  mind 
their  own  business." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Smith,"  be- 
gan Bowser,  good-naturedly.  "  Maybe 
you've  been  unfortunate  in  your  choice 
of  neighbours." 

"  I've  had  a  dozen  different  kinds," 
came  the  emphatic  answer.  "  This'll 
make  the  twelfth  move  in  eight  years, 
so  you  can't  say  that  I'm  speaking  from 
hearsay." 

"Twelve  moves  in  eight  years  !  "  ex- 
claimed Bowser,  as  the  wagon  went 
lurching  and  creaking  on  through  the 
dust.  "  There's  gipsy  blood  in  that 
Dunk  Smith,  sure  as  you  live.  Seems 
like  that  family  can't  be  satisfied  any- 
130 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roabs 


where  ;  always  thinking  they  can  better 
themselves  by  changing,  and  always 
getting  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the 
fire.  There  wa'n't  no  well  in  the  place 
where  they  settled  when  they  was  first 
married,  and  they  had  to  carry  water 
from  a  spring.  The  muscle  put  into 
packing  that  water  up-hill  those  six 
months  would  have  dug  a  cistern,  but 
they  were  too  short-sighted  to  see  that. 
They  jest  played  Jack  and  Jill  as  long 
as  they  could  stand  it,  and  then  moved 
to  a  place  where  there  was  a  cistern 
already  dug.  But  there  wa'n't  any  fruit 
on  that  place.  If  they'd  have  set  out 
trees  right  away  they'd  have  been  eat- 
ing from  orchards  of  their  own  plant- 
ing by  this  time.  But  they  thought  it 
was  easier  to  move  to  where  one  was 
already  set  out. 

"Then  when    they  got   to  a   place 
where  they  had  both  fruit  and  water, 


H0a  Holmes 


it  was  low,  and  needed  draining.  The 
water  settled  around  the  house,  and 
they  all  had  typhoid  that  summer.  Oh, 
they've  spent  enough  energy  packing 
up  and  moving  on  and  settling  down 
again  in  new  places  to  have  fixed  the 
first  one  up  to  a  queen's  taste.  They 
seem  to  be  running  a  perpetual  Home- 
seeker's  Excursion.  Well,  such  a  life 
might  suit  some  people,  but  it  would 
never  do  for  me." 

"  But  such  a  life  has  some  things  in 
its  favour,"  put  in  Rob  Akers,  always 
ready  to  debate  any  question  that  offered, 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  arguing.  "  It 
keeps  a  man  from  getting  into  a  rut, 
and  develops  his  ability  to  adapt  him- 
self to  any  circumstance.  A  man  who 
hangs  his  hat  on  the  same  peg  for  fifty 
or  sixty  years  gets  to  be  so  dependent  on 
that  peg  that  he  would  be  uncomfort- 
able if  it  were  suddenly  denied  him. 
132 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roat>0 


Now  Dunk  Smith  can  never  become 
such  a  slave  to  habit.  Then,  too, 
moving  tends  to  leave  a  man  more  un- 
hampered. He  gradually  gets  rid  of 
everything  in  his  possessions  but  the 
essentials.  He  hasn't  a  garret  full  of 
old  claptraps,  as  most  people  have 
who  never  move  from  under  their  an- 
cestral roof-trees.  You  saw  for  your- 
self, one  wagon  holds  all  his  household 
goods  and  gods. 

"  It  is  the  same  way  with  a  man 
mentally.  If  he  stays  in  the  spot  where 
his  forefathers  lived,  in  the  same  social 
conditions,  he  is  apt  to  let  his  upper 
story  accumulate  a  lot  of  worn-out 
theories  that  he  has  no  earthly  use  for ; 
all  their  old  dusty  dogmas  and  cob- 
webbed  beliefs.  He  will  hang  on  to 
them  as  on  to  the  old  furniture,  be- 
cause he  happened  to  inherit  them.  If 
he  would  move  once  in  awhile,  keep 
133 


H0a  Holmes 


up  with  the  times,  you  know,  he'd  get 
rid  of  a  lot  of  rubbish.  It  is  especially 
true  in  regard  to  his  religion.  All 
those  old  superstitions,  for  instance, 
about  Jonah  and  the  whale,  and  Noah's 
ark  and  the  like. 

"  He  hangs  on  to  them,  not  because 
he  cares  for  them  himself,  but  because 
they  were  his  father's  beliefs,  and  he 
doesn't  like  to  throw  out  anything  the 
old  man  had  a  sentiment  for.  Now, 
as  I  say,  if  he'd  move  once  in  awhile 
—  do  some  scientific  thinking  and  in- 
vestigating on  his  own  account  —  he'd 
throw  out  over  half  of  what  he  holds 
on  to  now.  He'd  cut  the  most  of 
Genesis  out  of  his  Bible,  and  let  Job 
slide  as  a  myth.  One  of  the  finest  bits 
of  literature,  to  be  sure,  that  can  be 
found  anywhere,  but  undoubtedly  fic- 
tion. The  sooner  a  man  moves  on 
untrammelled,  I  say,  by  those  old  heir- 
134 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roafc0 


looms  of  opinion,  the  better  progress 
he  will  make." 

"  Toward  what  ? "  asked  the  old 
miller,  laconically.  "  Dunk's  moving 
next  door  to  the  graveyard."  There 
was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  the  young 
collegian,  who  flattered  himself  that 
his  speech  was  making  a  profound  im- 
pression, paused  with  the  embarrassing 
consciousness  that  he  was  affording 
amusement  instead. 

"  The  last  time  I  went  East  to  visit 
my  grandson,"  said  the  old  man,  medi- 
tatively, "  his  wife  showed  me  a  ma- 
hogany table  in  her  dining-room  which 
she  said  was  making  all  her  friends 
break  the  tenth  commandment.  It 
was  a  handsome  piece  of  furniture, 
worth  a  small  fortune.  It  was  polished 
till  you  could  see  your  face  in  it,  and 
I  thought  it  was  the  newest  thing  out 
in  tables  till  she  told  me  she'd  rum- 
135 


H0a  Holmes 


maged  it  out  of  her  great-grandmother's 
attic,  and  had  it  '  done  over '  as  she 
called  it.  It  had  been  hidden  away  in 
the  dust  and  cobwebs  for  a  lifetime 
because  it  had  been  pronounced  too 
time-worn  and  battered  and  scratched 
for  longer  use  ;  yet  there  it  stood,  just  as 
beautiful  and  useful  for  this  generation 
to  spread  its  feasts  on  as  it  was  the  day  it 
was  made.  Every  whit  as  substantial, 
and  aside  from  any  question  of  senti- 
ment, a  thousand  times  more  valuable 
than  the  one  that  Dunk  Smith  drove 
past  with  just  now.  His  table  is  mod- 
ern, to  be  sure,  but  it's  of  cheap  pine, 
too  rickety  to  serve  even  Dunk  through 
his  one  short  lifetime  of  movings. 

"  I  heard  several  lectures  while  I 
was  there,  too.  One  was  by  a  man 
who  has  made  a  name  for  himself  on 
both  sides  of  the  water  as  a  scientist 
and  a  liberal  thinker.  He  took  up 
136 


at  tbc 


Genesis,  all  scratched  and  battered  as  it 
is  by  critics,  and  showed  us  how  it  had 
been  misunderstood  and  misconstrued. 
And  by  the  time  he'd  polished  up  the 
meaning  here  and  there,  so  that  we 
could  see  the  original  grain  of  the 
wood,  what  it  was  first  intended  to 
be,  it  seemed  like  a  new  book,  and 
fitted  in  with  all  the  modern  scientific 
ideas  as  if  it  had  been  made  only  yes- 
terday. 

"  There  it  stood,  like  the  mahogany 
table  that  had  been  restored  after  peo- 
ple thought  they  had  stowed  it  away 
in  the  attic  to  stay.  Just  as  firm  on 
its  legs,  and  as  substantial  for  this  gen- 
eration to  put  its  faith  on,  as  it  was  in 
the  days  of  the  Judges. 

"Take  an  old  man's    word   for   it, 

Robert,  who  has  lived  a  long  time  and 

seen  many  a  restless   Dunk  Smith  fling 

out  his  father's  old   heirlooms,  in  his 

137 


H0a  Ktolmes 


fever  to  move  on  to  something  new. 
Solid  mahogany,  with  all  its  dust  and 
scratches,  is  better  than  the  modern 
flimsy  stuff,  either  in  faith  or  furniture, 
that  he  is  apt  to  pick  up  in  its  stead." 


138 


Ht  tbe 


Cbapter 


THE  booming  of  distant  cannon 
had  been  sounding  at  intervals 
since  midnight,  ushering  in 
the  Fourth,  but  Bowser,  although  dis- 
turbed in  his  slumbers  by  each  rever- 
beration, did  not  rouse  himself  to  any 
personal  demonstration  until  dawn. 
Then  his  patriotism  manifested  itself 
in  a  noisy  tattoo  with  a  hammer,  as  he 
made  the  front  of  his  store  gay  with 
bunting,  and  nailed  the  word  Welcome 
over  the  door,  in  gigantic  letters  of  red, 
white,  and  blue. 

When  he  was  done,  each  window 
wore  a  bristling  eyebrow  of  stiff  little 
flags,  that  gave  the  store  an  air  of 
mild  surprise.  The  effect  was  wholly 
unintentional  on  Bowser's  part,  and, 
unconscious  of  the  likeness  to  human 
139 


H0a  Holmes 


eyes  he  had  given  his  windows,  he 
gazed  at  his  work  with  deep  satisfac- 
tion. 

But  the  expression  was  an  appro- 
priate one,  considering  all  the  astonish- 
ing sights  the  old  store  was  to  look 
upon  that  day.  In  the  woodland  across 
the  railroad  track,  just  beyond  Miss 
Anastasia  Dill's  little  cottage,  prepara- 
tions were  already  begun  for  a  grand 
barbecue.  Even  before  Bowser  had 
finished  tacking  up  his  flags,  the  digging 
of  the  trench  had  begun  across  the  way, 
and  the  erection  of  a  platform  for  the 
speakers.  In  one  corner  of  the  wood- 
land a  primitive  merry-go-round  had 
already  been  set  in  place,  and  the  first 
passenger  train  from  the  city  deposited 
an  enterprising  hoky-poky  man,  a  pea- 
nut and  pop-corn  vender,  and  a  lank 
black-bearded  man  with  an  outfit  for 
taking  tin-types. 

140 


at  tbe  Cros0*roa£>0 


By  ten  o'clock  the  wood-lot  fence 
was  a  hitching-place  for  all  varieties  of 
vehicles,  from  narrow  sulkies  to  cavern- 
ous old  carryalls.  A  haze  of  thick 
yellow  dust,  extending  along  the  pike 
as  far  as  one  could  see,  was  a  constant 
accompaniment  of  fresh  arrivals.  Each 
newcomer  emerged  from  it,  his  Sunday 
hat  and  coat  powdered  as  thickly  as  the 
wayside  weeds.  Smart  side-bar  bug- 
gies dashed  up,  their  shining  new  tops 
completely  covered  with  it.  There 
was  a  great  shaking  of  skirts  as  the 
girls  alighted,  and  a  great  flapping  of 
highly  perfumed  handkerchiefs,  as  the 
young  country  beaux  made  themselves 
presentable,  before  joining  the  other 
picnickers. 

Slow-going  farm  wagons  rattled 
along,  the  occupants  of  their  jolting 
chairs  often  representing  several  gen- 
erations, for  the  drawing  power  of  a 
141 


Hsa  Holmes 


Fourth  of  July  barbecue  reaches  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

The  unusual  sight  of  such  a  crowd, 
scattered  through  the  grove  in  gala 
attire,  was  enough  of  itself  to  produce 
a  holiday  thrill,  and  added  to  this  was 
the  smell  of  gunpowder  from  occa- 
sional outbursts  of  firecrackers,  the 
chant  of  the  hoky-poky  man,  and  the 
hysterical  laughter  of  the  couples  pat- 
ronising the  merry-go-round,  as  they 
clung  giddily  to  the  necks  of  the 
wooden  ostriches  and  camels  in  the  first 
delights  of  its  dizzy  whirl. 

"  Good  as  a  circus,  isn't  it  ? "  ex- 
claimed Robert  Akers,  pausing  beside 
the  bench  where  the  old  miller  and 
the  minister  sat  watching  the  gay 
scene.  "  Fm  having  my  fun  walking 
around  and  taking  notes.  It  is  amus- 
ing to  see  how  differently  the  affair 
impresses  people,  and  what  seems  to 
142 


Ht  tbe 


make  each  fellow  happiest.  Little 
Tommy  Bowser,  for  instance,  is  in  the 
seventh  heaven  following  the  hoky- 
poky  man.  He  gets  all  that  people 
leave  in  their  dishes  for  helping  to 
drum  up  a  crowd  of  patrons.  Perkins's 
boy  sticks  by  the  merry-go-round.  He 
has  spent  every  cent  of  his  own  money, 
and  had  so  many  treats  that  he's  spun 
around  till  he's  so  dizzy  he's  cross-eyed. 
One  old  fellow  I  saw  back  there  is 
simply  sitting  on  the  fence  grinning  at 
everything  that  goes  by.  He's  getting 
his  enjoyment  in  job  lots." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  minister,  so- 
ciably moving  along  the  bench  to 
make  room  beside  him  for  the  young 
man.  "  Mr.  Holmes  and  I  are  finding 
our  amusement  in  the  same  way,  only 
we  are  not  going  around  in  search  of 
it.  We  are  catching  at  it  as  it  drifts 
by." 

143 


H0a  Holmes 


"  What  has  happened  to  Mrs.  Teddy 
Mahone  ? "  exclaimed  Rob,  as  a  red- 
faced  woman  with  an  important  self- 
conscious  air  hurried  by.  "  She  seems 
ubiquitous  this  morning,  and  as  proud 
as  a  peacock  over  something.  One 
would  think  she  were  the  mistress  of 
ceremonies  from  her  manner." 

"  Or  hostess,  rather,"  said  the  miller. 
"  She  met  me  down  by  the  fence  on 
my  arrival,  and  held  out  her  hand  as 
graciously  as  if  she  were  a  duchess  in 
her  own  drawing-room,  and  I  an  in- 
vited guest. 

" '  Gude  marnin'  to  yez,  Mr.  Holmes,' 
she  said.  '  I  hope  ye'll  be  afther  enjyin' 
yerself  the  day.  If  anything  inther- 
feres  wid  yer  comfort  yeVe  but  to 
shpake  to  Mahone  about  it.  He's  been 
appinted  constable  for  the  occasion,  ye 
understhand.  If  I  do  say  it  as  oughtn't, 
he  can  carry  the  title  wid  the  best  av 
144 


at  tbe 


'im ;  him  six  fut  two  in  his  stockin's, 
an'  the  shtar  shinin'  on  his  wes'cut  loike 
he'd  been  barn  to  the  job.' 

"  Then  she  turned  to  greet  some 
strangers  from  Morristown,  and  I  heard 
her  introducing  herself  as  Mrs.  Con- 
stable Mahone,  and  repeating  the  same 
instructions  she  had  given  me,  to  report 
to  her  husband,  in  case  everything  was 
not  to  their  liking." 

Both  listeners  laughed  at  the  miller's 
imitation  of  her  brogue,  and  the  min- 
ister quoted,  with  an  amused  smile : 

" l  For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind,  which  did  that  title 
love.' 

It  is  a  pity  we  cannot  dress  more  of 
them  in  '  a  little  brief  authority.'  It 
seems  to  be  a  means  of  grace  to  a  cer- 
tain class  of  Hibernians.  It  has  Ameri- 
canised the  Mahones,  for  instance. 
MS 


H0a  Holmes 


You'll  find  no  patriots  on  the  ground 
to-day  more  enthusiastic  than  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Constable  Mahone.  Fourth  of 
July  will  be  an  honoured  feast-day 
henceforth  in  their  calendar.  It  is 
often  surprising  how  quickly  a  police- 
man's buttons  and  billy  will  make  a 
good  citizen  out  of  the  wildest  bog- 
trotter  that  ever  brandished  a  shillalah." 

Later,  in  subsequent  wanderings 
around  the  grounds,  the  young  colle- 
gian spied  the  little  schoolmistress  help- 
ing to  keep  guard  over  the  cake-table. 
He  immediately  crossed  over  and  joined 
her.  She  was  looking  unusually  pretty, 
and  there  was  an  amused  gleam  in  her 
eyes  as  she  watched  the  crowds,  which 
made  him  feel  that  she  was  viewing  the 
scene  from  his  standpoint;  that  he 
had  found  a  kindred  spirit. 

"  What  incentive  to  patriotism  do 
146 


Ht  tbe 


you  see  in  all  this,  Miss  Helen  ? "  he 
asked,  when  he  had  induced  her  to 
turn  over  her  guardianship  of  the  cake- 
table  to  some  one  else,  and  join  him  in 
his  tour  among  the  boisterous  picnickers. 
"  None  at  all  — yet,"  she  answered. 
"  I  suppose  that  will  come  by  and  by 
with  the  songs  and  speeches.  But 
all  this  foolishness  seems  a  legitimate 
part  of  the  celebration  to  me.  You 
remember  Lowell  says,  '  If  I  put  on 
the  cap  and  bells,  and  made  myself 
one  of  the  court  fools  of  King  Demos, 
it  was  less  to  make  his  Majesty  laugh 
than  to  win  a  passage  to  his  royal  ears 
for  certain  serious  things  which  I  had 
deeply  at  heart.'  It  takes  a  barbecue 
and  its  attendant  attractions  to  draw  a 
crowd  like  this.  See  what  a  hotch- 
potch it  is  of  all  nationalities.  Now 
that  Schneidmacher  family  never  would 
have  driven  ten  miles  in  this  heat 
147 


H0a  Holmes 


and  dust  simply  to  hear  the  band 
play  '  Hail,  Columbia/  and  Judge 
Jackson  make  one  of  his  spread-eagle 
speeches  on  the  Duty  of  the  American 
Citizen.  Neither  would  the  O'Gradys 
or  any  of  the  others  who  represent  the 
foreign  element  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Even  Young  America  himself,  the  type 
we  see  here,  is  more  willing  to  come 
and  bring  his  best  girl  on  account  of 
the  diversions  offered.'* 

"Well,  that  may  be  so,"  was  the 
reluctant  assent,  "  but  if  this  is  a  sample 
of  the  Fourth  of  July  observances  all 
over  the  country  I  can't  help  feeling 
sorry  for  Uncle  Sam.  Patriotism  has 
sadly  degenerated  from  the  pace  that 
Patrick  Henry  set  for  it." 

"  The  old  miller  says  not,"  answered 
the  little  schoolmistress.  "  I  made  that 
same  complaint  last  Washington's  Birth- 
day, when  I  was  trying  to  work  my 
148 


at  tbe  Cro00*roafcs 


school  up  to  proper  enthusiasm  for  the 
occasion.  He  recalled  the  drouth  of 
the  summer  before  when  nearly  every 
well  and  creek  and  pond  in  the  town- 
ship went  dry.  Cattle  died  of  thirst, 
gardens  dried  up  like  brick-kilns,  and 
people  around  here  were  almost  justi- 
fied in  thinking  that  the  universe  would 
soon  be  entirely  devoid  of  water.  The 
skies  were  like  brass,  and  there  was  no 
indication  of  rain  for  weeks.  But  one 
day  there  was  a  terrific  earthquake 
shock.  It  started  all  the  old  springs, 
and  opened  new  ones  all  over  this  part 
of  the  country,  and  the  water  gushed 
out  of  the  earth  where  it  had  been 
pent  up  all  the  time,  only  waiting  for 
some  such  touch  to  call  it  forth.  '  And 
you're  afraid  that  patriotism  is  going 
dry  in  this  generation,'  he  said  to  me. 
*  But  it  only  takes  some  shock  like  the 
sinking  of  the  Maine,  or  some  sudden 
149 


Hea  Holmes 


menace  to  the  public  safety,  to  start  a 
spring  that  will  gush  from  Plymouth 
Rock  to  the  Golden  Gate.  There  is  a 
deep  underground  vein  in  the  American 
heart  that  no  drouth  can  ever  dry. 
Maybe  it  does  not  come  to  the  surface 
often,  but  it  can  always  be  depended 
on  in  time  of  need.' ' 

The  speakers  for  the  day  began  to 
arrive,  and  Rob,  seeing  the  crowds 
gravitating  toward  the  grand  stand, 
took  the  little  schoolmistress  to  the 
bench  where  the  miller  had  stationed 
himself. 

"  Watch  that  old  Scotchman  just  in 
front  of  us,"  whispered  the  girl,  "  Mr. 
Sandy  McPherson.  Last  Thanksgiving 
there  was  a  union  service  in  the  school- 
house.  After  the  sermon  '  America  '  was 
sung,  and  that  old  heathen  stood  up 
and  roared  out  through  it  all,  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  every  word  of  '  God 
150 


at  tbe 


Save  the  Queen  ! '  Wasn't  that  flaunt- 
ing the  thistle  in  our  faces  with  a  ven- 
geance ?  I  am  sure  that  he  will  repeat 
the  performance  to-day.  Think  of  the 
dogged  persistence  that  refuses  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  fact  that  we  have  thrown 
off  the  British  yoke  !  The  very  day  we 
are  celebrating  that  event,  he'll  dare  to 
mix  up  our  national  hymn  with  « God 
Save  the  King. '  " 

It  was  as  she  had  predicted.  As  the 
band  started  with  a  great  clash  of 
brazen  instruments,  and  the  whole 
company  rose  to  the  notes  of  "  Amer- 
ica," Sandy  McPherson's  big  voice,  with 
its  broad  Scotch  burr,  rolled  out  like 
a  bass  drum : 

" « Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store, 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour. 
Long  may  he  reign.'  " 

It  drowned  out  every  voice  around 
him.  "He  ought  to  be  choked,"  ex- 


H0a  Holmes 


claimed  Rob,  in  righteous  indignation, 
as  they  resumed  their  seats.  "  To-day 
of  all  days !  The  old  Tory  has  been 
living  in  this  country  for  forty-five 
years,  and  a  good  living  he's  gotten  out 
of  it,  too,  for  himself  and  family.  No- 
body cares  what  he  sings  on  his  own 
premises,  but  he  might  have  the 
decency  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  on 
occasions  of  this  kind,  if  he  can't  join 
with  us.'* 

There  was  a  gleam  of  laughter  in 
the  little  schoolmistress's  eyes  as  she 
replied :  "  If  the  truth  were  known  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  this  Fourth  of 
July  celebration  is  very  like  the  pie 
in  Mother  Goose's  song  of  sixpence, 
when  her  four  and  twenty  blackbirds 
were  baked  in  a  pie.  If  this  pie  could 
be  opened,  and  the  birds  begin  to  sing 
according  to  their  sentiments,  there 
would  be  a  wonderful  diversity  of 
152 


at  tbc  Cro0s*roab0 


tunes.  One  would  be  twittering  the 
'  Marseillaise,'  and  another  '  Die  Wacht 
am  Rhein,'  and  another  echoing  old 
Sandy's  tune.  America  was  in  too  big 
a  hurry  to  serve  her  national  pie,  I  am 
afraid.  Consequently  she  put  it  in 
half  prepared,  and  turned  it  out  half 
baked.  The  blackbirds  should  have 
had  their  voices  tuned  to  the  same  key 
before  they  were  allowed  to  become 
vital  ingredients  of  such  an  important 
dish." 

"  In  other  words,"  laughed  Rob, 
"  you'd  reconstruct  the  enfranchise- 
ment laws.  Make  the  term  of  proba- 
tionary citizenship  so  long  that  the 
blackbird  would  have  time  to  change 
his  vocal  chords,  or  even  the  leopard 
his  anarchistic  spots,  before  he  would 
be  considered  fit  to  be  incorporated  in 
the  national  dish.  By  the  way,  Miss 
Helen,  have  you  heard  Mrs.  Mahone's 
153 


Hsa  Holmes 


allegory  of  the  United  Pudding  bag  ? 
You  and  she  ought  to  collaborate. 
Get  the  storekeeper  to  repeat  it  to  you 
sometime." 

"  You  needn't  laugh,"  responded  the 
little  schoolmistress,  a  trifle  tartly. 
"  You  know  yourself  that  scores  of 
emigrants  are  given  the  ballot  before 
they  can  distinguish  '  Yankee  Doodle ' 
from  '  Dixie,'  and  that  is  only  typical 
of  their  ignorance  in  all  matters  regard- 
ing governmental  affairs.  Too  many 
people's  idea  of  good  citizenship  is  like 
the  man's  'who  kept  his  private  pan 
just  where  'twould  catch  most  public 
drippings.'  There  is  another  mistaken 
idea  loose  in  the  land,"  she  continued, 
after  a  moment.  "That  is,  that  a 
great  hero  must  be  a  man  who  has  a 
reputation  as  a  great  soldier.  I  wish 
I  had  the  rewriting  of  all  the  school 
histories.  They  are  better  now  than 
154 


Ht  tbe  Cro00-roat>0 


when  I  studied  them,  but  there  is  still 
vast  room  for  improvement.  I  had  to 
learn  page  after  page  of  wars.  Really, 
war  and  history  were  synonyms  then 
as  it  was  taught  in  the  schools.  Every 
chapter  was  gory,  and  we  were  required 
to  memorise  the  numbers  killed, 
wounded,  and  captured  in  every  battle, 
from  the  French  and  Indian  massacres, 
down  to  the  last  cannon-shot  of  the 
sixties.  That  is  all  right  for  govern- 
ment records  and  reference  libraries, 
but  when  we  give  a  text-book  to  the 
rising  generation,  the  accounts  of  bat- 
tles and  the  glorifying  thereof  would 
be  better  relegated  to  the  foot-notes. 
It  is  loyal  statesmanship  that  ought 
to  be  exalted  in  our  school  histories. 
We  ought  to  make  our  heroes  out  of 
the  legislators  who  cannot  be  bribed 
and  public  men  who  cannot  be  bought, 
and  the  honest  private  citizen  who 
155 


H0a  Holmes 


lives  for  his  country  instead  of  dying 
for  it." 

The  old  miller  beside  her  applauded 
softly,  leaning  over  to  say,  as  the  over- 
ture by  the  band  came  to  a  close  with 
a  grand  clash,  "  If  ever  the  black- 
birds are  tuned  to  one  key,  Miss  Helen, 
America  will  know  whom  to  thank. 
Not  the  legislators,  but  the  patriotic 
little  schoolma'ams  all  over  their  land 
who  are  serving  their  country  in  a 
way  her  greatest  generals  cannot  do." 

All  day  the  Cross- Roads  store  raised 
its  bristling  eyebrows  of  little  flags,  till 
the  celebration  came  to  a  close.  Sa- 
voury whiffs  of  the  barbecued  meats 
floated  across  to  it,  vigorous  hand-clap- 
ping and  hearty  cheers  rang  out  to  it 
between  the  impassioned  words  of  ex- 
cited orators.  Later  there  were  the 
fireworks,  and  more  rag-time  music  by 
156  ' 


Bt  tbe  <Tro06*'roat>0 


the  band,  and  renewed  callings  of  the 
hoky-poky  man.  But  before  the  moon 
came  up  there  was  a  great  backing  of 
teams  and  scraping  of  turning  wheels, 
and  a  gathering  together  of  picnic- 
baskets  and  stray  children. 

"  Well,  it's  over  for  another  year," 
said  Bowser,  welcoming  the  old  miller, 
who  had  crossed  the  road  and  taken  a 
chair  on  the  porch  to  wait  until  the 
crowds  were  out  of  the  way. 

"  Those  were  fine  speeches  we  had 
this  afternoon,  but  seemed  to  me  as  if 
they  were  plumb  wasted  on  the  major- 
ity of  that  crowd.  They  applauded 
them  while  they  were  going  off,  same 
as  they  did  the  rockets,  but  they  forget 
in  the  next  breath."  As  Bowser  spoke, 
a  rocket  whizzed  up  through  the  tree 
tops,  and  the  old  miller,  looking  up  to 
watch  the  shining  trail  fade  out,  saw 
that  the  sky  was  full  of  stars. 
157 


a$a  Holmes 


"  That's  the  good  of  those  speeches, 
Bowser,"  he  said.  " '  To  leave  a  <waket 
mens  hearts  and  faces  skyward  turning.' 
I  hadn't  noticed  that  the  stars  were  out 
till  that  rocket  made  me  look  up.  The 
speeches  may  be  forgotten,  but  they 
will  leave  a  memory  in  their  wake  that 
give  men  an  uplook  anyhow." 


158 


Bt  tbe  Cro00*roafc0 


dbapter 


'  f^]  UESS  who's  come  to  board  at 

I    "W"  the   Widder  Powers's  for  the 

month  of  August?"     It  was 

Bowser   who  asked  the   question,  and 

who  immediately  answered  it  himself, 

as  every  man  on  the  porch  looked  up 

expectantly. 

"  Nobody  more  nor  less  than  a  multi- 
millionaire !  The  big  boot  and  shoe 
man,  William  A.  Maxwell.  Mrs. 
Powers  bought  a  bill  of  goods  this 
morning  as  long  as  your  arm.  It's  a 
windfall  for  her.  He  offered  to  pay 
regular  summer-resort-hotel  prices,  be- 
cause she's  living  on  the  old  farm  where 
he  was  born  and  raised,  and  he  fancied 
getting  back  to  it  for  a  spell." 

"  Family  coming  with  him  ? "  queried 
Cy  Akers,  after  a  moment's  meditation 
159 


Hsa  Holmes 


over  the  surprising  fact  that  a  million- 
aire with  the  world  before  him  should 
elect  such  a  place  as  the  Cross-Roads 
in  which  to  spend  his  vacation. 

"  No,  you  can  bet  your  bottom 
dollar  they're  not.  And  they're  all 
abroad  this  summer  or  he'd  never  got 
here.  They'd  had  him  dragged  off  to 
some  fashionable  watering-place  with 
them.  But  when  the  cat's  away  the 
mice'll  play,  you  know.  Mrs.  Powers 
says  it  is  his  first  visit  here  since  his 
mother's  funeral  twenty  years  ago,  and 
he  seems  as  tickled  as  a  boy  to  get 
back. 

"  Yesterday  evening  he  followed  the 
man  all  around  the  place  while  she  was 
getting  supper.  She  left  him  setting 
up  in  the  parlour,  but  when  she  went 
in  to  ask  him  out  to  the  table,  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Pretty  soon  he 
came  walking  around  the  corner  of  the 
1 60 


Ht  tbc  Cross^roafcs 


house  with  a  pail  of  milk  in  each  hand, 
sloshing  it  all  over  his  store  clothes. 
He'd  done  the  milking  himself,  and 
seemed  mightily  set  up  over  it." 

"  Lawzee  !  Billy  Maxwell !  Don't 
I  remember  him  ? "  exclaimed  Bud 
Hines.  "  Seems  like  'twas  only  yes- 
terday we  used  to  sit  on  the  same  bench 
at  school  doin'  our  sums  out  of  the 
same  old  book.  The  year  old  man 
Prosser  taught,  we  got  into  so  much 
devilment  that  it  got  to  be  a  regular 
thing  for  him  to  say,  regular  as  clock- 
work, almost,  '  I'll  whip  Bud  Hines 
and  Billy  Maxwell  after  the  first  arith- 
metic class  this  morning.'  I  don't 
s'pose  he  ever  thinks  of  those  old  times 
since  he's  got  to  be  one  of  the  Four 
Hundred.  Somehow  I  can  hardly 
sense  it,  his  bein'  so  rich.  He  never 
seemed  any  smarter  than  the  rest  of  us. 
That's  the  way  of  the  world,  though, 
161 


H$a  Holmes 


seesaw,  one  up  and  the  other  down. 
Of  course  it's  my  luck  to  be  the  one 
that's  down.  Luck  always  was  against 
me." 

"  There  he  is  now,"  exclaimed  the 
storekeeper,  and  every  head  turned  to 
see  the  stranger  stepping  briskly  along 
the  platform  in  front  of  the  depot,  on 
his  way  to  the  telegraph  office. 

He  had  the  alertness  of  glance  and 
motion  that  comes  from  daily  contact 
with  city  corners.  If  there  was  a  slight 
stoop  in  his  broad  shoulders,  and  if  his 
closely  cut  hair  and  beard  were  iron 
gray,  that  seemed  more  the  result  of 
bearing  heavy  responsibilities  than  the 
token  of  advancing  years.  His  immac- 
ulate linen,  polished  low-cut  shoes,  and 
light  gray  business  suit  would  have 
passed  unnoticed  in  the  metropolis,  but 
in  this  place,  where  coats  and  collars 
were  in  evidence  only  on  Sunday,  they 
162 


at  tbc 


gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  on 
dress  parade. 

Perkins's  oldest  eyed  him  as  he 
would  a  zebra  or  a  giraffe,  or  some 
equally  interesting  curiosity  escaped 
from  a  Zoo.  He  had  heard  that  his 
pockets  were  lined  with  gold,  and  that 
he  had  been  known  to  pay  as  much  as 
five  dollars  for  a  single  lunch.  Five 
dollars  would  board  a  man  two  weeks 
at  the  Cross-Roads. 

With  his  mouth  agape,  the  boy 
stood  watching  the  stranger,  who  pres- 
ently came  over  to  the  group  on  the 
porch  with  smiling  face  and  cordial 
outstretched  hand.  Despite  his  gray 
hair  there  was  something  almost  boy- 
ish in  the  eagerness  with  which  he 
recognised  old  faces  and  claimed  old 
friendships.  Bowser's  store  had  been 
built  since  his  departure  from  the 
neighbourhood,  so  few  of  the  congenial 
163 


Hsa  Holmes 


spirits  accustomed  to  gather  there  were 
familiar  to  him.  But  Bud  Hines  and 
Cy  Akers  were  old  schoolfellows. 
When  he  would  have  gone  up  to  them 
with  old-time  familiarity,  he  found 
a  certain  restraint  in  their  greeting 
which  checked  his  advances. 

If  he  thought  he  was  coming  back 
to  them  the  same  freckle-faced,  uncon- 
ventional country  lad  they  had  known 
as  Billy  Maxwell,  he  was  mistaken. 
He  might  feel  that  he  was  the  same  at 
heart ;  but  they  looked  on  the  out- 
ward appearance.  They  saw  the  suc- 
cessful man  of  the  world  who  had 
outstripped  them  in  the  race  and  passed 
out  of  their  lives  long  ago.  They 
could  not  conceive  of  such  a  change 
as  had  metamorphosed  the  boy  they 
remembered  into  the  man  who  stood 
before  them,  without  feeling  that 
a  corresponding  change  must  have 
164 


at  tbc 


taken     place    in    his    attitude    toward 
them. 

They  were  not  conscious  that  this 
feeling  was  expressed  in  their  reception 
of  him.  They  laughed  at  his  jokes, 
and  indulged  in  some  reminiscences, 
but  he  felt,  in  a  dim  subconscious  way, 
that  there  was  a  barrier  between  them, 
and  he  could  never  get  back  to  the  old 
familiar  footing. 

He  turned  away,  vaguely  disap- 
pointed. Had  he  dared  to  dream  that 
he  would  find  his  lost  youth  just  as  he 
had  left  it  ?  The  fields  and  hills  were 
unchanged.  The  very  trees  were  the 
same,  except  that  they  had  added  a 
few  more  rings  to  their  girth,  and 
threw  a  larger  circling  shade.  But  the 
old  chums  he  had  counted  on  finding 
had  not  followed  the  same  law  of 
growth  as  the  trees.  The  shade  of  their 
sympathies  had  narrowed,  not  expanded, 
165 


Hea  Holmes 


with  the  passing  years,  and  left  him 
outside  their  contracted  circle. 

Perkins's  oldest,  awed  by  reports  of 
his  fabulous  wealth,  could  hardly  find 
his  tongue  when  the  distinguished  visi- 
tor laid  a  friendly  hand  on  his  embar- 
rassed tow  head,  and  inquired  about 
the  old  swimming-hole,  and  the  mill- 
dam  where  he  used  to  fish.  But  the 
boy's  interest  grew  stronger  every  min- 
ute as  he  watched  him  turning  over 
the  limited  assortment  of  fishing  tackle. 
The  men  he  knew  had  outlived  such 
frivolous  sports.  It  was  a  sight  to  jus- 
tify one's  gazing  open-mouthed,  —  a 
grown  man  deliberately  preparing  for 
a  month's  idleness. 

If  the  boy  could  have  seen  the 
jointed  rods,  the  reels,  the  flies,  all  the 
expensive  angler's  outfit  left  behind  in 
the  Maxwell  mansion ;  if  he  could 
have  known  of  the  tarpon  this  man 
1 66 


at  tbc 


had  caught  in  Florida  bays,  and  the 
fishing  he  had  enjoyed  in  northern 
waters,  he  would  have  wondered  still 
more ;  wondered  how  a  man  could  be 
considered  in  his  right  mind  who  delib- 
erately renounced  such  privileges  to 
come  and  drop  a  common  hook,  on  a 
pole  of  his  own  cutting,  into  the  shal- 
low pools  of  the  Cross-Roads  creek. 

After  his  purchases  no  one  saw  him 
at  the  store  for  several  days,  but  the 
boy,  dodging  across  lots,  encountered 
him  often,  —  a  solitary  figure  wander- 
ing by  the  mill  stream,  or  crashing 
through  the  woods  with  long  eager 
strides  ;  lying  on  the  orchard  grass  some- 
times with  his  hat  pulled  over  his 
eyes ;  leaning  over  the  pasture  bars  in 
the  twilight,  and  following  with  wist- 
ful glance  the  little  foot-path  stretch- 
ing white  across  the  meadows.  A 
pathetic  sight  to  eyes  wise  enough  to 
167 


H0a  Holmes 


see  the  pathos,  —  a  world-weary,  mid- 
dle-aged man  in  vain  quest  of  his  lost 
boyhood. 

On  Sunday,  Polly,  looking  across  the 
church  from  her  place  in  the  miller's 
pew,  recognised  the  stranger  in  their 
midst,  and  straightway  lost  the  thread 
of  the  sermon  in  wondering  at  his 
presence.  She  had  gone  to  school 
with  his  daughter,  Maud  Maxwell. 
She  had  danced  many  a  german  with 
his  son  Claude.  They  lived  on  the 
same  avenue,  and  passed  each  other 
daily ;  but  this  was  the  first  time  she 
had  seen  him  away  from  the  shadow 
of  the  family  presence,  that  seemed  to 
blot  out  his  individuality. 

She  had  thought  of  him  only  as 
Maud's  father,  a  simple,  good-natured 
nonentity  in  his  own  household.  A 
good  business  man,  but  one  who  could 
talk  nothing  but  leather,  and  whose 
1 68 


at  tbc 


only  part  in  the  family  affairs  was  to 
furnish  the  funds  for  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren to  shine  socially. 

"  Oh,  your  father's  opinion  doesn't 
count,"  she  had  heard  Mrs.  Maxwell 
say  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and 
the  children  had  grown  up,  uncon- 
sciously copying  her  patronising  atti- 
tude toward  him.  As  Polly  studied 
his  face  now  in  the  light  of  other  sur- 
roundings, she  saw  that  it  was  a  strong, 
kindly  one ;  that  it  was  not  weakness 
which  made  him  yield  habitually,  until 
he  had  become  a  mere  figurehead  in 
his  own  establishment.  It  was  only 
that  his  peace-loving  nature  hated 
domestic  scenes,  and  his  generosity 
amounted  to  complete  self-effacement 
when  the  happiness  of  his  family  was 
concerned. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  chancel 
with  a  wistful  reminiscent  gaze,  and 
169 


Hsa  Holmes 


Polly  read  something  in  the  care- 
worn face  that  touched  her  sympathy. 
"  Grandfather,"  she  said,  at  the  close 
of  the  service,  "  let's  be  neighbourly 
and  ask  Mr.  Maxwell  home  to  dinner 
with  us.  He  looks  lonesome." 

She  was  glad  afterward  that  she  had 
suggested  it,  when  she  recalled  his 
evident  pleasure  in  the  old  man's  com- 
pany. There  were  chairs  out  under 
the  great  oak-trees  in  the  yard,  and  the 
two  sat  talking  all  afternoon  of  old 
times,  until  the  evening  shadows  began 
to  grow  long  across  the  grass.  Then 
Polly  joined  them  again,  and  sat  with 
them  till  the  tinkle  of  home-going  cow- 
bells broke  on  the  restful  stillness  of 
the  country  Sabbath. 

"  All  the  orchestras  in  all  the  operas 

in  the  world  can't    make   music    that 

sounds  as  sweet  to  me  as  that  does,"  said 

Mr.   Maxwell,  raising   his   head   from 

170 


at  tbe  <Iro00*roafc0 


the  big  armchair  to  listen.     Then  he 
dropped  it  again  with  a  sigh. 

"  It  rests  me  so  after  the  racket  of 
the  city.  If  Julia  would  only  consent, 
I'd  sell  out  and  come  back  to-morrow. 
But  she's  lost  all  interest  in  the  old 
place.  I'm  country  to  the  core,  but 
she  never  was.  She  took  to  city  ways 
like  a  duck  to  water,  just  as  soon  as 
she  got  away  from  the  farm,  and  she 
laughs  at  me  for  preferring  katydids  to 
the  whirr  of  electric  cars." 

A  vision  rose  before  the  old  miller 
of  a  little  country  girl  in  a  pink  cotton 
gown,  who  long  ago  used  to  wait, 
bright-eyed  and  blushing,  at  the  pas- 
ture bars,  for  Billy  to  drive  home  the 
cows.  Many  a  time  he  had  passed 
them  at  their  trysting-place.  Then 
he  recalled  the  superficial,  ambitious 
woman  he  had  met  years  afterward 
when  he  visited  his  son.  He  shook 
171 


Hea  Holmes 


his  head  when  he  thought  of  her  re- 
nouncing her  social  position  for  the 
simple  pastoral  life  her  husband  longed 
to  find  the  way  back  to.  Presently  he 
broke  the  silence  of  their  several  rev- 
eries by  turning  to  Polly. 

"  What's  that  piece  you  recited  to 
me  the  other  night,  little  girl,  about 
old  times  ?  Say  it  for  Mr.  Maxwell." 
And  Polly,  clasping  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  looking  away  across  the 
August  meadows,  purple  with  the 
royal  pennons  of  the  ironweed,  began 
the  musical  old  poem  : 

" c  Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  ko-linglelingle, 
Way  down  the  darkening  dingle 

The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
(And  old-time  friends  and  twilight  plays 
And  starry  nights  and  sunny  days 
Come  trooping  up  the  misty  ways, 

When  the  cows  come  home.) 

Ul  And  over  there  on  Merlin  Hill 

Hear  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  whippoorwill. 
172 


at  tbe 


And  the  dewdrops  lie  on  the  tangled  vines, 
And  over  the  poplars  Venus  shines, 
And  over  the  silent  mill. 

" c  Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  ko-linglelingle, 
With  ting-aling  and  jingle 

The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
(Let  down  the  bars,  let  in  the  train 
Of  long-gone  songs  and  flowers  and  rain, 
For  dear  old  times  come  back  again, 

When  the  cows  come  home.)  '  " 

Once  as  Polly  went  on,  she  saw  the 
tears  spring  to  his  eyes  at  the  line  "  and 
mother-songs  of  long-gone  years,"  and 
she  knew  that  the 

"  same  sweet  sound  of  wordless  psalm, 
The  same  sweet  smell  of  buds  and  balm," 

that  had  been  his  delight  in  the  past, 
were  his  again  as  he  listened.  But, 
much  to  her  surprise,  as  she  finished, 
he  rose  abruptly,  and  began  a  hurried 
leave  -  taking.  She  understood  his 
173 


H0a  Holmes 


manner,  however,  when  his  mood  was 
revealed  to  her  a  little  later. 

At  her  grandfather's  suggestion  she 
walked  down  to  the  gate  with  him,  to 
point  out  a  short  cut  across  the  fields 
to  Mrs.  Powers's.  Outside  the  gate  he 
paused,  hat  in  hand. 

"  Miss  Polly,"  he  began,  as  if  un- 
consciously taking  her  into  his  confi- 
dence, "  old  times  never  come  back 
again.  Seems  as  if  the  bottom  had 
dropped  out  of  everything.  I've  done 
my  best  to  resurrect  them,  but  I  can't 
do  it.  I  thought  if  I  could  once  get 
back  to  the  old  place  I  could  rest  as 
I've  not  been  able  to  rest  for  twenty 
years  —  that  I'd  have  a  month  of  per- 
fect enjoyment.  But  something's  the 
matter. 

"  Many  a  time  when  I've  been  off 
at  some  fashionable  resort  I've  thought 
I'd  give  a  fortune  to  be  able  to  drop 
174 


Ht  tbe 


my  hook  in  your  grandfather's  mill- 
stream,  and  feel  the  old  thrill  that  I 
used  to  feel  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  tried 
it  the  day  I  came  —  caught  a  little 
speckled  trout,  the  kind  that  used  to 
make  me  tingle  to  my  finger  ends,  but 
somehow  it  didn't  bring  back  the  old 
sensation.  I  just  looked  at  it  a  min- 
ute and  put  it  back  in  the  water,  and 
threw  my  pole  away. 

"  Even  the  swimming-hole  down  by 
the  mill  didn't  measure  up  to  the  way 
I  had  remembered  it.  I've  fairly  ached 
for  a  dip  into  it  sometimes,  in  the  years 
I've  been  gone.  Seemed  as  if  I  could 
just  get  into  it  once,  I  could  wash  my- 
self clear  of  all  the  cares  and  worries 
of  business  that  pester  a  man  so.  That 
was  a  disappointment,  too.  The  change 
is  in  me,  I  guess,  but  nothing  seems 
the  same." 

Polly  knew  the  reason.  He  had 
175 


B0a  Holmes 


tried  so  long  to  mould  his  habits  to  fit 
his  wife's  exacting  tastes,  that  he  had 
succeeded  better  than  he  realised.  He 
could  not  analyse  his  feelings  enough  to 
know  that  it  was  the  absence  of  long 
accustomed  comforts  that  made  him 
vaguely  dissatisfied  with  his  surround- 
ings ;  his  luxuriously  appointed  bath- 
room, for  instance  ;  the  perfect  service 
of  his  carefully  trained  footmen.  Mrs. 
Powers's  noisy  table,  where  with  great 
clatter  she  urged  every  one  "  to  fall 
to  and  help  himself,"  jarred  on  him, 
although  he  was  unconscious  of  what 
caused  the  irritation.  As  for  the  rank 
tobacco  Bowser  furnished  him  when 
he  had  exhausted  his  own  special  brand 
of  cigars  with  which  he  had  stocked 
his  satchel,  it  was  more  than  flesh  and 
blood  could  endure.  That  is,  flesh 
and  blood  that  had  acquired  the  pam- 
pered taste  of  a  millionaire  whose  wife 
176 


Ht  tbe 


is  fastidous,  and  only  allows  first-class 
aromas  in  the  way  of  the  weed. 

But  Polly  knew  another  reason  that 
his  vacation  had  been  a  failure.  She 
divined  it  as  the  little  Yale  pin,  stuck 
jauntily  into  the  front  of  her  white 
dress,  met  the  touch  of  her  caressing 
fingers.  The  girl  in  the  pink  cotton 
gown  was  long  dead,  and  the  woman 
who  had  grown  up  in  her  stead  had  no 
part  in  the  old  scenes  that  he  still 
fondly  clung  to,  with  a  sentiment  she 
ridiculed  because  she  could  not  under- 
stand. There  must  always  be  two  when 
you  turn  back  searching  for  your  lost  El- 
dorado, and  even  tbe  two  cannot  find  //, 
unless  they  go  hand  in  hand. 

Next  day  Bowser  had  another  piece 

of  news    to    impart.     "  Mr.   Maxwell 

went    home    this    morning.      He  told 

Mrs.  Powers  it  was  like  taking  a  vacation 

177 


H0a  Holmes 


in  a  graveyard,  and  he'd  had  enough. 
He'd  have  to  get  back  to  work  again. 
So  he  paid  her  for  the  full  month,  and 
took  the  first  train  back  to  the  city." 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!  "  was  Bud 
Hines's  comment.  "  If  I  had  as  much 
money  as  he's  got,  I'd  never  bother 
my  head  about  work.  I'd  sit  down 
and  take  it  easy  all  the  rest  of  my  born 
days." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Bowser, 
meditatively.  "  I  reckon  a  man  who's 
worked  the  way  Mr.  Maxwell  has, 
gets  such  a  big  momentum  on  to  him- 
self that  he  can't  stop,  no  matter  how 
bad  he  wants  a  vacation." 

"  He's  a  fool  for  coming  back  here 
for  it,"  said  Bud  Hines,  looking  out 
across  the  fields  that  stretched  away  on 
every  side  in  unbroken  monotony. 

But  miles  away,  in  his  city  office, 
the  busy  millionaire  was  still  haunted 
178 


at  tbe 


by  an  unsatisfied  longing  for  those 
same  level  meadows.  Glimpses  of  the 
old  mill-stream  and  the  willows  still 
rose  before  him  in  tantalising  freshness, 
and  whenever  he  closed  his  tired  eyes, 
down  twilight  paths,  where  tinkling 
cowbells  called,  there  came  again  the 
glimmer  of  a  little  pink  gown,  to  wait 
for  him  as  it  had  waited  through  all 
the  years,  beside  the  pasture  bars. 


179 


Hsa  Holmes 


Cbapter  fl 


THE  seat  was  an  empty  starch- 
box  on  the  Cross-Roads  porch, 
its  occupant  a  barefoot  boy 
with  a  torn  straw  hat  pulled  far  down 
over  his  eyes.  To  the  casual  observer 
one  of  the  most  ordinary  of  sights,  but 
to  one  possessed  of  sympathetic  powers 
of  penetration  into  a  boy's  inner  con- 
sciousness there  was  a  suggestion  of  the 
tragic.  Perkins's  oldest  had  that  after- 
noon in  school  been  told  to  write  a 
composition  on  September.  It  was  to 
be  handed  in  next  morning.  It  was  the 
hopelessness  of  accomplishing  the  fact 
even  in  aeons,  not  to  mention  the  limited 
time  of  a  dozen  short  hours,  that  had 
bound  him,  a  little  Prometheus,  to  the 
starch-box,  with  the  vulture  of  abso- 
lute despair  tearing  at  his  vitals. 


at  tbe 


Two  other  boys  had  been  assigned 
the  same  subject,  and  the  three  had 
kicked  the  dust  up  wrathfully  all  the 
way  from  the  schoolhouse,  echoing 
an  old  cry  that  had  gone  up  ages  be- 
fore from  the  sons  of  Jacob,  under  the 
lash  of  the  Egyptian,  "  How  can  we 
make  bricks  without  straw  ? " 

"  Ain't  nothin'  to  say  'bout  Septem- 
ber," declared  Riley  Hines,  gloomily, 
"  and  I'll  be  dogged  if  I  say  it.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  my  sister  to  write  mine  fer 
me.  She'll  do  it  ef  I  tease  long 
enough,  and  give  her  something  to 
boot." 

"  I'll  ask  paw  what  to  say,"  declared 
Tommy  Bowser.  "  He  won't  write  it 
for  me,  but  he'll  sort  o'  boost  me  along. 
Then  if  it  ain't  what  she  wants,  /  won't 
be  to  blame.  I'll  tell  her  paw  said 
'twas  all  right." 

This  shifting  of  responsibility  to 
181 


Hea  Holmes 


paternal  shoulders  restored  the  habitual 
expression  of  cheerfulness  to  Tommy's 
smudgy  face,  but  there  was  no  corre- 
sponding smile  on  Sammy's.  There 
was  no  help  to  be  had  in  the  house- 
hold of  Perkins. 

That  was  why  he  was  waiting  on 
the  starch-box  while  Tommy  was  sent 
on  an  errand.  It  was  in  the  vain  hope 
that  Tommy  would  return  and  apply 
for  his  "  boost "  and  share  it  with  him 
before  darkness  fell.  He  was  a  prac- 
tical child,  not  given  to  whimsical 
reflections,  but  as  he  sat  there  in  des- 
perate silence,  he  began  wondering 
what  the  different  customers  would 
have  to  say  if  they  were  suddenly  called 
upon,  as  he  had  been  that  afternoon, 
to  write  about  September. 

Mrs.  Powers,  for  instance,  in  her 
big  crape  bonnet,  with  its  long  wispy 
veil  trailing  down  her  back.  He  was 
182 


at  tbe  Cro$&*roab6 


almost  startled,  when,  as  if  in  answer 
to  his  thought,  she  uttered  the  word 
that  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  present 
trouble,  the  subject  assigned  him  for 
composition. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Bowser,  September  is  a 
month  that  I'm  never  sorry  to  say  good- 
bye to.  What  with  the  onion  pickle 
and  peach  preserves  and  the  house- 
cleaning  to  tend  to,  I'm  nearly  broke 
down  when  it's  over.  There's  so  many 
odds  and  ends  to  see  to  on  a  farm  this 
time  of  year,  first  in  doors  and  then 
out.  I  tell  Jane  it's  like  piecing  a 
crazy  quilt.  You  can't  never  count  on 
what  a  day's  going  to  bring  forth  in  Sep- 
tember. You  may  get  a  carpet  up  and 
beat,  and  have  your  stove  settin'  out 
waiting  to  be  put  up,  and  your  furni- 
ture in  a  heap  in  the  yard,  and  the 
hired  man  will  have  to  go  off  and  leave 
it  all  while  he  takes  the  cider-mill  to 
183 


Hsa  Holmes 


be  mended.  And  you  in  a  stew  all 
day  long  for  fear  it'll  rain  before  he 
gets  things  under  shelter. 

"  Then  it's  a  sad  time  to  me,  too," 
she  exclaimed  with  a  mournful  shake 
of  the  head  in  the  black  bonnet.  "  It 
was  in  September  I  lost  my  first  and 
third  husbands,  two  of  the  best  that 
ever  had  tombstones  raised  to  their 
memory,  if  I  do  say  it  as  oughtn't. 
One  died  on  the  sixteenth,  and  his 
funeral  was  preached  on  the  eighteenth, 
and  the  other  died  fifteen  years  later 
on  the  twenty-third,  and  we  kept  him 
three  days,  on  account  of  waiting  till 
his  brother  could  get  here  from  Mis- 
souri. So  you  see  that  makes  nearly 
a  week  altogether  of  mournful  anniver- 
saries for  me  every  September." 

Another  breath  and  she  had  reached 
the  three  tombstones,  and  talking 
volubly  on  her  favourite  subject,  she 
184 


at  tbc 


completed  her  purchases  and  went  out. 
But  her  conversation  had  not  lightened 
the  woes  of  the  little  Prometheus  on 
the  starch-box.  Despair  still  gnawed 
on.  House-cleaning  worries  and  onion 
pickle,  and  reminiscences  of  two  out  of 
three  departed  husbands,  might  furnish 
material  for  Mrs.  Powers's  composition, 
should  the  fates  compel  her  to  write 
one,  but  there  was  no  straw  of  a  sug- 
gestion for  Sammy  Perkins,  and  again 
he  cried  out  inwardly  as  bitterly  as  the 
oppressed  of  old  had  cried  out  against 
Pharaoh. 

A  man  in  a  long,  sagging  linen  duster 
was  the  next  comer.  He  squeaked 
back  and  forth  in  front  of  the  counter 
in  new  high-heeled  boots,  and  talked 
incessantly  while  he  made  his  purchases, 
with  a  clumsy  attempt  at  facetiousness. 

"  Put  in  a  cake  of  shaving-soap,  too, 
Jim,"  he  called,  passing  his  hand  over 


Hsa  Molme0 


the  black  stubble  on  his  chin.  "  County 
court  begins  to-morrer.  Reckon  the 
lawyers  will  shave  everything  in  sight 
when  it  comes  to  their  bills,  but  I  want 
to  be  as  slick  as  them.  I'll  be  settin' 
on  the  jury  all  week.  Did  you  ever 
think  of  it,  Jim,  that's  a  mighty  inter- 
esting way  to  earn  your  salt  ?  Jest  set 
back  and  be  entertained  with  the  his- 
tory of  all  the  old  feuds  and  fusses  in 
the  county,  and  collect  your  two  bucks 
a  day  without  ever  turning  your  hand 
over.  Good  as  a  show,  and  dead  easy. 
"  Only  one  thing,  it  sort  o'  spiles 
your  faith  in  human  nature.  The 
court  stenographer  said  last  year  that 
in  the  shorthand  he  writes,  the  same 
mark  that  stands  for  lawyer  stands  for 
liar,  too.  He !  he !  he !  isn't  that  a 
good  one  ?  You  can  only  tell  which 
one  is  meant  by  what  comes  before  it, 
and  this  fellow  said  he'd  come  to  be- 
186 


at  tbc 


lieve  that  one  always  fit  in  the  sentence 
as  good  as  the  other.  Either  word 
was  generally  appropriate.  You  miss 
a  lot  of  fun,  Jim,  by  not  getting  on 
the  jury.  I  always  look  forrard  to  fall 
on  that  account." 

No  help  for  Perkins's  oldest  in  that 
conversation.  He  waited  awhile  longer. 
Presently  an  old  gentleman  in  a  long- 
tailed,  quaintly  cut  black  coat,  stepped 
up  on  the  porch.  He  had  a  gold- 
headed  cane  under  his  arm,  and  the 
eyes  behind  the  square-bowed  spec- 
tacles beamed  kindly  on  the  little 
fellow.  He  stopped  beside  the  starch- 
box  a  moment  with  a  friendly  question 
about  school  and  the  health  of  the 
Perkins  household.  The  boy's  heart 
gave  a  jump  up  into  his  throat.  The 
old  minister  knew  everything.  The 
minister  could  even  tell  him  what  to 
write  in  his  composition  if  he  dared 


Hsa  Holmes 


but  ask  him.  He  opened  his  mouth 
to  form  the  question,  but  his  tongue 
seemed  glued  in  its  place,  and  the  head 
under  the  torn  hat  drooped  lower  in 
embarrassed  silence.  His  troubled  face 
flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  tow  hair, 
and  he  let  the  Angel  of  Opportunity 
pass  him  by  unchallenged. 

"  Will  you  kindly  give  me  one  of 
those  advertising  almanacs,  Mr.  Bow- 
ser ? "  inquired  the  parson,  when  his 
packages  of  tea  and  sugar  had  been 
secured.  "  I've  misplaced  mine,  and  I 
want  to  ascertain  at  what  hour  to- 
morrow the  moon  changes." 

"  Certainly,  certainly  !  "  responded 
the  storekeeper  with  obliging  alacrity, 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  step- 
ping up  on  a  chair  to  reach  the  pile 
on  a  shelf  overhead.  "  Help  your- 
self, sir.  I  must  answer  the  telephone." 

The  parson,  slowly  studying  the 
1 88 


Ht  tbe 


moon's  phases  as  he  stepped  out  of  the 
store,  did  not  notice  that  he  had  taken 
two  almanacs  until  one  fell  at  his  feet. 
The  boy  sprang  up  to  return  it,  but  he 
waved  it  aside  with  a  courtly  sweep  of 
his  hand. 

"  No,  my  son,  I  intended  to  take 
but  one.  Keep  it.  They  are  for  gen- 
eral distribution.  You  will  find  it  full 
of  useful  information.  Have  you  ever 
learned  anything  about  the  signs  of  the 
Zodiac  ?  Here  is  Leo.  I  always  take 
an  especial  interest  in  this  sign,  because 
I  happened  to  be  born  under  it.  I'm 
the  seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son,  born 
in  the  seventh  month,  and  I  always 
take  it  as  a  good  omen,  seven  being 
the  perfect  number.  You  know  the 
ancients  believed  a  man's  star  largely 
affected  his  destiny.  You  will  find 
some  interesting  historical  events  enu- 
merated under  each  month.  A  good 
189 


H0a  Holmes 


almanac  is  almost  as  interesting  to  study 
as  a  good  dictionary,  my  boy.  I  would 
advise  you  to  form  a  habit  of  referring 
to  both  of  them  frequently." 

With  one  of  his  rare,  childlike 
smiles  the  good  man  passed  on,  and 
Perkins's  oldest  was  left  with  the 
almanac  in  his  hands.  For  awhile  he 
studied  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  in 
puzzled  awe,  trying  to  establish  a  re- 
lationship between  them  and  the  man 
they  surrounded,  whose  vital  organs 
were  obligingly  laid  open  to  public  in- 
spection, regardless  of  any  personal 
inconvenience  the  display  might  cause 
him. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  historical 
events.  There  was  one  for  each  day 
in  the  month.  On  Sunday,  the  first, 
eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  had 
occurred  the  Japanese  typhoon.  Fri- 
day, the  sixth,  sixteen  hundred  and 
190 


Ht  tbc 


twenty,  the  Mayflower  had  sailed. 
Mahomet's  birth  had  set  apart  the 
eleventh  in  five  hundred  and  seventy. 
The  founding  of  Mormonism,  Wash- 
ington's Farewell,  and  the  battle  of 
Marathon  were  further  down  the  list, 
but  it  was  all  Greek  to  Perkins's 
oldest.  Any  one  of  these  items  would 
have  been  straw  for  the  parson.  Out 
of  the  Mayflower,  Mahomet,  Mormon- 
ism,  or  Marathon,  each  one  of  them 
the  outgrowth  of  some  September,  he 
could  have  pressed  enough  literary 
brick  to  build  a  fair  sky-scraping 
structure  that  would  have  been  the 
wonder  of  all  who  gazed  upon  it. 
This  time  the  boy  looked  his  Angel 
of  Opportunity  in  the  face  and  did  not 
recognise  it  as  such. 

The  gate  clicked  across  the  road  and 
he  turned    his   head.      Miss    Anastasia 
Dill  was  going  up  the  path,  her  arms 
191 


Hsa  Holmes 


full  of  goldenrod  and  white  and  purple 
asters.  September  was  a  poem  to  Miss 
Anastasia,  but  the  boy  looked  upon 
goldenrod  and  the  starry  asters  simply 
as  meadow  weeds.  The  armful  of 
bloom  brought  no  suggestion  to  him. 
On  the  morrow  Riley  Hines  would 
hand  in  two  pages  of  allusions  to  them, 
beginning  with  a  quotation  from  Whit- 
tier's  "  Autumn  Thoughts,"  and  end- 
ing with  a  couplet  from  Pope,  carefully 
copied  by  Maria  Hines  from  the  "  Ex- 
ercises for  Parsing  "  in  the  back  of  her 
grammar. 

Somebody's  supper-horn  blew  in  the 
distance,  and,  grown  desperate  by 
Tommy's  long  absence  and  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  he  took  his  little 
cracked  slate  from  the  strap  of  books 
on  the  floor  beside  him,  and  laid  it 
across  his  knees.  Then  with  a  stubby 
pencil  that  squeaked  dismally  in  its 
192 


Ht  tbe 


passage  across  the  slate,  he  began  copy- 
ing bodily  from  the  almanac  the  list 
of  historical  events  enumerated  therein, 
just  as  they  stood,  beginning  with  the 
Japanese  typhoon  on  the  first,  and 
ending  "  Volunteer  beat  Thistle  "  on  the 
thirtieth,  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty- 
seven. 

Then  he  began  to  copy  a  few  agri- 
cultural notes,  inserted  as  side  remarks 
for  those  who  relied  on  their  almanacs 
as  guide-posts  to  gardening.  "  Gather 
winter  squashes  now.  They  keep 
better  when  stored  in  a  warm  dry 
place.  Harvest  sugar  beets  when  the 
leaves  turn  yellowish  green,  etc." 

He  was  bending  painfully  over  this 
task  when  a  shadow  fell  across  his 
slate,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  the  old 
miller  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Doing  your  sums  ? "  he  asked,  with 
a  friendly  smile.  "  Let's  see  if  you  do 
193 


Holmes 


them  the  way  I  was  taught  when  I 
was  a  lad."  He  held  out  his  hand  for 
the  slate.  There  had  been  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  the  two  ever  since 
Christmas  eve,  when  a  certain  pair  of 
skates  had  changed  owners,  and  now, 
although  the  boy's  voice  trembled  al- 
most out  of  his  control,  he  managed 
to  stammer  out  the  reply  that  he  was 
trying  to  write  a  composition. 

The  old  man  looked  from  the 
straggling  lines  on  the  slate,  then  at 
the  open  almanac,  then  down  at  the 
boy's  troubled  face,  and  understood. 
Drawing  a  chair  across  the  porch  he 
sat  down  beside  him,  and,  catching  the 
furtive,  scared  side-glance  cast  in  his 
direction,  he  plunged  at  once  into  a 
story. 

It  was  about  a  shepherd  boy  who 
went  out  to  fight  a  giant,  and  the  king 
insisted  on  lending  him  his  armour. 
194 


at  tbe  <Tro00*roafc0 


But  he  couldn't  fight  in  the  heavy 
helmet  and  the  coat  of  mail.  The 
shield  was  in  his  way,  and  the  spear 
more  than  he  could  lift.  So  he  threw  it 
aside,  and  going  down  to  a  little  brook, 
chose  five  small  pebbles,  worn  smooth 
by  the  running  water.  And  with  these 
in  his  hand,  and  only  the  simple  sling 
he  was  accustomed  to  use  every  day,  he 
went  out  against  the  Philistine  giant, 
and  slew  him  in  the  first  round. 

Perkins's  oldest  wondered  what  the 
story  had  to  do  with  his  composition. 
He  wasn't  looking  for  a  personal  appli- 
cation. He  had  not  been  brought  up  at 
Sunday  schools  and  kindergartens.  But 
all  of  a  sudden  he  realised  that  the 
miller  meant  him ;  that  his  depending 
on  Tommy,  or  the  customers,  or  the 
almanac,  to  furnish  him  ideas,  was  like 
going  out  in  Saul's  armour,  and  that 
he  could  only  come  to  failure  in  that, 
195 


H0a  Holmes 


because  it  wouldn't  fit  him  ;  that  he 
could  hit  the  mark  the  little  school- 
mistress had  in  mind  for  him,  only 
with  the  familiar  sling-shot  of  his  own 
common  every-day  personal  experiences. 
Maybe  the  old  miller  recognised 
that  it  was  a  crisis  in  the  little  fellow's 
life,  for  he  stayed  beside  him  with 
helpful  hints  and  questions,  until  the 
slate  was  full.  When  he  carried  it 
home  in  the  gloaming  it  no  longer 
bore  the  items  from  the  almanac. 
There  were  other  remarks  straggling 
across  it,  not  so  well  expressed,  per- 
haps, but  plainly  original.  They  were 
to  the  effect  that  September  is  the 
month  you've  got  to  go  back  to  school 
when  you  don't  want  to,  'cos  it's  the 
nicest  time  of  all  to  stay  out-doors, 
neither  too  hot  nor  too  cold.  There's 
lots  of  apples  then,  and  it's  the  minis- 
ter's birthday.  He's  the  seventh  son  of 
196 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roafcs 


a  seventh  son,  and  Dick  Wiggins  says 
if  you're  that  you  can  pick  Wahoo 
berries  in  the  dark  of  the  moon  and 
make  med'cine  out  of  them,  that  will 
cure  the  bone-break  fever  every  time, 
when  nothing  else  in  the  world  will. 
Then  followed  several  items  of  infor- 
mation that  he  had  discovered  for 
himself,  in  his  prowls  through  the 
September  woods,  about  snakes  and 
tree-toads,  as  to  their  habits  at  that 
season  of  the  year.  It  closed  with  a  sug- 
gestive allusion  to  the  delights  of  suck- 
ing cider  from  the  bung  of  a  barrel 
through  a  straw. 

Next  day  the  little  schoolmistress 
shook  her  head  over  the  composition 
that  Riley  Hines  handed  in,  and  laid 
it  aside  with  a  hopeless  sigh.  She 
recognised  too  plainly  the  hand  of 
Maria  in  its  construction.  The  senti- 
ments expressed  therein  were  as  foreign 
197 


Hea  Holmes 


to  Riley's  nature  as  they  would  have 
been  to  a  woodchuck's.  She  took  up 
Tommy  Bowser's.  Alas,  four-syllabled 
words  were  not  in  Tommy's  daily 
vocabulary,  nor  were  the  elegant  sen- 
tences under  his  name  within  the 
power  of  his  composition.  Plainly  it 
was  the  work  of  a  plagiarist. 

She  went  through  the  pile  slowly, 
and  then  wrote  on  the  blackboard  as 
she  had  promised,  the  names  of  the 
ten  whose  work  was  the  best  and  most 
original.  It  was  then  that  Perkins's 
oldest  had  the  surprise  of  his  life,  for 
lo !  his  name,  like  Abou-ben-Adhem's, 
"  led  all  the  rest." 

Again  the  Cross-Roads  had  taught 
him  more  than  the  school,  —  to  depend 
on  the  resources  to  which  nature  had 
adapted  him,  and  never  again  to  at- 
tempt to  sally  forth  in  borrowed  armour, 
even  though  it  be  a  king's. 
198 


Bt  tbe  Croee^roabs 


Cbaptcr  Jflll 


IT  was  Cy  Akers  who  carried  the 
news  to  the  schoolhouse,  galloping 
his  old  sorrel  up  to  the  open  door 
just  before  the  bell  tapped  for  afternoon 
dismissal.  He  did  not  dismount,  but 
drawing  rein,  leaned  forward  in  his 
saddle,  waiting  for  the  little  school- 
mistress to  step  down  from  the  desk  to 
the  doorstep.  The  rows  of  waiting 
children  craned  their  necks  anxiously, 
but  only  those  nearest  the  door  heard 
his  message. 

"  Mr.  Asa  Holmes  died  this  morn- 
ing," he  said.  "  The  funeral  is  set  for 
to-morrow  afternoon  at  four,  and  you 
can  announce  to  the  children  that  there 
won't  be  any  school.  The  trustees 
thought  it  would  be  only  proper  to 
close  out  of  respect  for  him,  as  he  was 
199 


Hea  Molme0 


on  the  school  board  over  thirty  years, 
and  has  done  so  much  for  the  com- 
munity. He's  one  of  the  old  land- 
marks, you  might  say,  about  the  last  of 
the  old  pioneers,  and  everybody  will 
want  to  go." 

Before  she  could  recover  from  the 
suddenness  of  the  announcement  the 
rider  was  gone,  and  she  was  left  look- 
ing out  across  the  October  fields  with 
a  lonely  sense  of  personal  loss,  although 
her  acquaintance  with  the  old  miller 
had  extended  over  only  two  short 
school  terms. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  measured 
tramp  of  feet  over  the  worn  door-sill 
began,  and  forty  children  passed  out 
into  the  mellow  sunshine  of  the  late 
autumn  afternoon.  They  went  quietly 
at  first,  awed  by  the  tender,  reverent 
words  in  which  the  little  schoolmistress 
had  given  them  the  message  to  carry 
200 


at  tbe 


home.  But  once  outside,  the  pent-up 
enthusiasm  over  their  unexpected  holi- 
day, and  the  mere  joy  of  being  alive 
and  free  on  such  a  day  sent  them  rush- 
ing down  the  road  pell-mell,  shouting 
and  swinging  their  dinner-pails  as  they 
ran. 

A  shade  of  annoyance  crossed  the 
teacher's  face  as  she  stood  watching 
from  the  doorstep.  She  wished  she 
had  cautioned  them  not  to  be  so  noisy, 
for  she  knew  that  their  shouts  could 
be  plainly  heard  in  the  old  house 
whose  gables  she  could  see  through  a 
clump  of  cedars,  farther  down  the 
road.  It  was  standing  with  closed 
blinds  now,  and  she  had  a  feeling  that 
the  laughing  voices  floating  across  to  it 
must  strike  harshly  across  its  profound 
silence. 

But  presently  her  face  brightened  as 
she  watched  the  children  running  on 
201 


Hsa  Holmes 


in  the  sunshine,  in  the  joy  of  their 
emancipation.  Part  of  a  poem  she 
had  read  that  morning  came  to  her. 
She  had  thought  when  she  read  it  that 
it  was  a  beautiful  way  to  look  upon 
death,  and  now  it  bore  a  new  signifi- 
cance, and  she  whispered  it  to  herself: 

"lWhy   should    it    be    a    wrench   to    leave    this 

wooden  bench  ? 
Why    not  with    happy   shout,  run    home  when 

school  is  out  ? ' 

"  That's  the  way  the  old  miller  has 
gone,"  she  said,  softly.  "  His  lessons 
all  learned  and  his  tasks  all  done  —  so 
well  done,  too,  that  he  has  nothing  to 
regret.  I'm  glad  that  I  didn't  stop  the 
children.  I  am  sure  that's  the  way  he 
would  want  them  to  go.  Dear  old 
man !  He  was  always  a  boy  at  heart." 

She  turned  the  key  in  the  door  be- 
hind her  presently,  and  started  down 
202 


Ht  tbe  <Tro00*roafc0 


the  road  to  Mrs.  Powers's,  where  she 
boarded.  In  every  fence  corner  the 
sumachs  flamed  blood-red,  and  across 
the  fields,  where  purple  shadows  trailed 
their  royal  lengths  behind  every  shock 
of  corn,  the  autumn  woodlands  massed 
their  gold  and  crimson  against  the 
sunset  sky.  She  walked  slowly,  loath 
to  reach  the  place  where  she  must  go 
indoors. 

The  Perkins  home  lay  in  her  way, 
and  as  she  passed,  Mrs.  Perkins  with  a 
baby  on  her  hip,  and  a  child  clinging 
to  her  skirts,  leaned  over  the  gate  to 
speak  to  her. 

"  Isn't  it  sad,"  the  woman  exclaimed, 
grasping  eagerly  at  this  chance  to  dis- 
cuss every  incident  of  the  death  and 
illness,  with  that  love  for  detail  al- 
ways to  be  found  in  country  districts 
where  happenings  are  few  and  inter- 
ests are  strong. 

203 


Hsa  Holmes 


"  They  sent  for  the  family  Tuesday 
when  he  had  the  stroke,  but  he  couldn't 
speak  to  them  when  they  got  here. 
They  said  he  seemed  to  recognise  Miss 
Polly,  and  smiled  when  she  took  his 
hand.  She  seemed  to  be  his  favourite, 
and  they  say  she's  taking  it  mighty 
hard  —  harder  than  any  of  the  rest. 
It's  a  pity  he  couldn't  have  left  'em  all 
some  last  message.  I  think  it's  always  a 
comfort  to  remember  one's  dying  words 
when  as  good  a  person  as  Mr.  Holmes 
goes.  And  it's  always  so  nice  when 
they  happen  to  be  appropriate,  so's  they 
can  be  put  on  the  tombstone  afterward. 
I  remember  my  Aunt  Maria  worked 
my  grandfather's  last  words  into  a 
sampler,  with  an  urn  and  weeping- 
willow-tree.  She  had  it  framed  in 
black  and  hung  in  the  parlour,  and 
everybody  who  came  to  the  house 
admired  it.  It's  a  pity  that  the  miller 
204 


Ht  tbe  Cross^roafce 


couldn't  have  left  some  last  word  to 
each  of  'em." 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  necessary," 
said  the  girl,  turning  away  with  a 
choke  in  her  voice,  as  the  eloquent 
face  of  the  old  man  seemed  to  rise  up 
before  her.  "His  whole  life  speaks  for 
him." 

Mrs.  Perkins  looked  after  the  re- 
treating figure  regretfully,  as  the  jaunty 
sailor  hat  disappeared  behind  a  tall 
hedge.  "  I  wish  she  hadn't  been  in 
such  a  hurry,"  she  sighed,  shifting  the 
baby  to  the  other  hip.  "  I  would 
have  liked  to  ask  her  if  she's  heard 
who  the  pall-bearers  are  to  be." 

At  the  turn  in  the  road  the  little 
schoolmistress  looked  up  to  see  Miss 
Anastasia  Dill  leaning  over  her  gate. 
She  had  just  heard  the  news,  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  pale  blue  eyes. 

"And  Polly's  wedding  cards  were 
205 


B0a  Holmes 


to  have  been  sent  out  this  next  week  !  " 
she  exclaimed  after  their  first  words  of 
greeting.  "  The  poor  child  told  me 
so  herself  when  she  was  here  in  August 
on  a  visit.  *  Miss  Anastasia,'  she  said 
to  me,  « I'm  not  going  abroad  for  my 
honeymoon,  as  all  my  family  want 
me  to  do.  I'm  going  to  bring  Jack 
back  here  to  the  old  homestead  where 
grandfather's  married  life  began.  Some- 
how it  was  so  ideal,  so  nearly  perfect, 
that  I  have  a  feeling  that  maybe  the 
mantle  of  that  old  romance  will  fall  on 
our  shoulders.  Besides,  Jack  has  never 
seen  grandfather,  and  I  tell  him  it's  as 
much  of  an  education  to  know  such 
a  grand  old  man  as  it  is  to  go  through 
Yale.  So  we're  coming  in  October. 
The  woods  will  have  on  all  their  gala 
colours  then,  and  I'll  be  the  happiest 
bride  the  sun  ever  shone  on,  unless  it 
was  my  grandmother  Polly.'  And  now 
206 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roafc6 


to  think,"  added  Miss  Anastasia,  tear- 
fully, "  none  of  those  plans  can  come 
to  pass.  It's  bad  luck  to  put  off  a 
wedding.  Oh,  I  feel  so  sorry  for 
her !  " 

There  is  an  undefined  note  of  pathos 
in  a  country  funeral  that  is  never 
reached  in  any  other.  The  little  school- 
mistress felt  it  as  she  walked  up  the  path 
to  the  old  house  behind  the  cedars. 
The  front  porch  was  full  of  men,  who, 
dressed  in  their  unaccustomed  best, 
had  the  uneasy  appearance  of  having 
come  upon  a  Sunday  in  the  middle  of 
the  week.  Their  heavy  boots  tiptoed 
clumsily  through  the  hall,  with  a  pain- 
ful effort  to  go  silently,  as  one  by  one 
the  neighbours  passed  into  the  old  sit- 
ting-room and  out  again.  The  room 
across  the  hall  had  been  filled  with 
rows  of  chairs,  and  the  women  who 
207 


H0a  Holmes 


came  first  were  sitting  there  in  a 
deep  silence,  broken  only  by  a  cough 
now  and  then,  a  hoarse  whisper  or  a 
rustle,  as  some  one  moved  to  make 
room  for  a  newcomer. 

It  was  a  sombre  assembly,  for  every 
one  wore  whatever  black  her  wardrobe 
afforded,  and  many  funeral  occasions 
had  left  an  accumulation  of  mourning 
millinery  in  every  house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. But  the  limp  crape  veils 
and  black  gloves  and  pall-like  cash- 
mere shawls  were  all  congregated  in 
the  dimly  lighted  parlour.  In  the  old 
sitting-room  it  was  as  cheerful  and 
homelike  as  ever,  save  for  the  still 
form  in  the  centre. 

Through  an  open  window  the  west- 
ern sun  streamed  into  the  big,  hospit- 
able room,  across  the  bright  home-made 
rag  carpet.  The  old  clock  in  the 
corner  ticked  with  the  placid,  steady 
208 


at  tbc  <rro0&*roat>0 


stroke  that  had  never  failed  or  faltered, 
in  any  vicissitude  of  the  generations 
for  which  it  had  marked  the  changes. 
No  fire  blazed  on  the  old  hearthstone 
that  had  warmed  the  hearts  as  well  as 
the  hands  of  the  whole  countryside  on 
many  a  cheerful  occasion.  But  a  great 
bough  of  dogwood,  laid  across  the  shin- 
ing andirons,  filled  the  space  with  coral 
berries  that  glowed  like  live  embers  as 
the  sun  stole  athwart  them. 

"  Oh,  if  the  old  room  could  only 
speak !  "  thought  Miss  Anastasia,  when 
her  turn  came  to  pass  reverently  in  for 
a  last  look  at  the  peaceful  face.  "  There 
would  be  no  need  of  man's  eulogy." 

But  man's  eulogy  was  added  pres- 
ently, when  the  old  minister  came  in 
and  took  his  place  beside  the  coffin 
of  his  lifelong  friend  and  neighbour. 
The  men  outside  the  porch  closed  in 
around  the  windows  to  listen.  The 
209 


H0a  Molme0 


women  in  the  back  rows  of  chairs  in 
the  adjoining  room  leaned  forward 
eagerly.  Those  farthest  away  caught 
only  a  faltering  sentence  now  and 
then. 

"  A  hospitality  as  warm  as  his  own 
hearthstone,  as  wide  as  his  broad  acres. 
.  .  .  No  man  can  point  to  him  and  say 
he  ever  knowingly  hurt  or  hindered  a 
fellow  creature.  .  .  .  He  never  meas- 
ured out  to  any  man  a  scant  bushel. 
Be  it  grain  or  good-will,  it  was  ever  an 
overflowing  measure.  ..."  But  those 
who  could  not  hear  all  that  was  said 
could  make  the  silent  places  eloquent 
with  their  own  recollections,  for  he 
had  taken  a  father's  interest  in  them 
all,  and  manifested  it  by  a  score  of 
kindly  deeds,  too  kindly  to  ever  be 
forgotten. 

It  was  a  perfect  autumn  day,  sunny 
and  golden  and  still,  save  for  the  patter 

2IQ 


Ht  tbe  Cro00*roat>0 


of  dropping  nuts  and  the  dry  rustle  of 
fallen  leaves.  A  purple  haze  rested  on 
the  distant  horizon  like  the  bloom  on 
a  ripened  grape.  Down  through  the 
orchard,  when  the  simple  service  was 
over,  they  carried  their  old  friend  to  the 
family  burying-ground,  and,  although 
voices  had  choked,  and  eyes  overflowed 
before,  there  was  neither  sob  nor  tear, 
when  the  light  of  the  sunset  struck 
across  the  low  mound,  heaped  with  its 
covering  of  glowing  autumn  leaves. 
For  if  grief  has  no  part  in  the  sunset 
glory  that  ends  the  day,  or  in  the  per- 
fect fulness  of  the  autumn  time,  then 
it  must  indeed  stand  hushed,  when  a 
life  comes  both  to  its  sunset  and  its 
harvest,  in  such  royal  fashion. 

That  evening    at    the   Cross-Roads, 
Bowser  lighted  the  first  fire  of  the  sea- 
son in  the  rusty  old  stove,  for  the  night 
211 


H0a  Holmes 


was  chilly.  One  by  one  the  men  ac- 
customed to  gather  around  it  dropped 
in  and  took  their  usual  places.  The 
event  of  the  day  was  all  that  was  spoken 
of. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  he  said 
last  Thanksgiving,  nearly  a  year  ago  ? " 
asked  Bowser.  "  It  came  back  to  me 
as  I  stood  and  looked  at  him  to-day, 
and  if  I'd  never  believed  in  immortality 
before,  I'd  'a'  had  to  have  believed  in  it 
then.  The  words  seemed  to  fairly 
shine  out  of  his  face.  He  said  '  'The 
best  comes  after  the  harvest,  when  the 
wheat  goes  to  make  up  blood  and  muscle 
and  brain ;  when  if  s  raised  to  a  higher 
order  of  life  in  man.  And  if  s  the  same 
with  me.  At  eighty-Jive,  when  it  looks  as 
if  I'd  about  reached  the  end,  I've  come 
to  believe  that  "  the  best  is  yet  to  be" 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  Cy 
Akers  said,  slowly,  "  Somehow  I  can't 
212 


Bt  tbe 


feel  that  he  is  dead.  Seems  as  if  he'd 
just  gone  away  a  while.  But  Lord ! 
how  we're  going  to  miss  him  here  at 
the  store." 

"  No,  don't  say  that !  "  exclaimed 
Bud  Hines,  with  more  emotion  than 
he  had  ever  been  known  to  show  be- 
fore. "  Say,  how  we're  going  to  feel 
him !  I  can't  get  him  out  of  my 
mind.  Every  time  I  turn  around, 
most,  seems  to  me  I  can  hear  him 
laugh,  and  say,  '  Don't  cross  your 
bridge  till  you  come  to  it,  Bud.'  That 
saying  of  his  rings  in  my  ears  every 
time  I  get  in  the  dumps.  Seems  like 
he  could  set  the  calendar  straight  for 
us,  all  the  year  around.  The  winters 
wasn't  so  cold  or  the  summers  so  hard 
to  pull  through,  looking  at  life  through 
his  eyes." 

Perkins's  oldest  crept  up  unnoticed. 
He  added  no  word,  but  deep  in  his 
213 


H0a  Holmes 


heart  lay  an  impression  that  all  the 
years  to  come  could  never  erase  ;  the 
remembrance  of  a  kindly  old  man  who 
had  given  him  a  new  gospel,  in  that 
one  phrase,  "  A  brother  to  Santa 
Claus ; "  who  had  taught  him  to  go 
out  against  his  Philistines  with  simple 
directness  of  aim  and  whatever  lay  at 
hand ;  who  had  left  behind  him  the 
philosophy  of  a  cheerful  optimist,  and 
the  example  of  a  sweet  simple  life, 
unswerving  in  its  loyalty  to  duty  and 
to  truth. 

Over  in  the  old  homestead,  Polly, 
standing  in  the  firelight,  fair  and  slender 
in  her  black  gown,  looked  up  at  the 
tall  young  fellow  beside  her,  and  placed 
two  little  books  in  his  hands.  The 
old  house  was  not  her  only  heritage. 
The  little  atlas  of  the  heavens  was  hers 
also.  Standing  there  in  the  room 
214 


Ht  tbe 


where  the  beloved  presence  seemed  to 
have  left  its  benediction,  Polly  told  the 
story  of  the  love  that  had  outlived 
Death.  Then  across  the  yellowed 
page  of  the  old  grammar  where  the 
faded  violets  lay,  two  hands  met  in 
the  same  sure  clasp  that  had  joined  the 
souls  of  those  older  lovers,  who  some- 
where beyond  the  stars  were  still  re- 
peating the  old  conjugation  —  "  we 
love  — for  ever  I'1 


THE    END. 


215 


£ .  Ctlafle  fc  Compang'0 

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Haunters  of  the  Silences.   BY  CHARLES  G. 

D.  ROBERTS,  author  of  "  Red  Fox,"  «  The  Watchers  of 
the  Trails,"  etc. 

Cloth,  one  volume,  with  many  drawings  by  Charles  Liv- 
ingston Bull,  four  of  which  are  in  full  color      .    $2.00 

The  stories  in  Mr.  Roberts's  new  collection  are  the  strong- 
est and  best  he  has  ever  written. 

He  has  largely  taken  for  his  subjects  those  animals  rarely 
met  with  in  books,  whose  lives  are  spent "  In  the  Silences," 
where  they  are  the  supreme  rulers.  Mr.  Roberts  has  writ- 
ten of  them  sympathetically,  as  always,  but  with  fine  regard 
for  the  scientific  truth. 

"  As  a  writer  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an  enviable 
place.  He  is  the  most  literary,  as  well  as  the  most  imaginative 
and  vivid  of  all  the  nature  writers."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  His  animal  stories  are  marvels  of  sympathetic  science  and 
literary  exactness."  —  New  York  World. 

I 


L.    C.  PAGE   AND  COMPANY'S 


The   Lady  of   the    Blue    Motor.      By 

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the  Motor-Boat  Conqueror,"  "  The  Motor  Pirate,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  colored  frontispiece  by  John  C. 
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The  Lady  of  the  Blue  Motor  is  an  audacious  heroine 
who  drove  her  mysterious  car  at  breakneck  speed.  Her 
plea  for  assistance  in  an  adventure  promising  more  than  a 
spice  of  danger  could  not  of  course  be  disregarded  by  any 
gallant  fellow  motorist.  Mr.  Paternoster's  hero  rose 
promptly  to  the  occasion.  Across  France  they  tore  and 
across  the  English  Channel.  There,  the  escapade  past,  he 
lost  her. 

Mr.  Paternoster,  however,  is  generous,  and  allows  the 
reader  to  follow  their  separate  adventures  until  the  Lady  of 
the  Blue  Motor  is  found  again  and  properly  vindicated  of 
all  save  womanly  courage  and  affection.  A  unique  ro- 
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Clementina's  Highwayman.    By  ROBERT 

NEILSON  STEPHENS,  author  of  "  The  Flight  of  Geor- 
giana,"  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  etc. 

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Mr.  Stephens  has  put  into  his  new  book,  "  Clementina's 
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dashing,  sparkling,  vivacious  comedy,  with  a  heroine  as 
lovely  and  changeable  as  an  April  day,  and  a  hero  all  ardor 
and  daring. 

The  exquisite  quality  of  Mr.  Stephens's  literary  style 
clothes  the  story  in  a  rich  but  delicate  word-fabric ;  and 
never  before  have  his  setting  and  atmosphere  been  so 
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The  Sorceress  Of  Rome.      By  NATHAN  GAL- 
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The  love-story  of  Otto  III.,  the  boy  emperor,  and  Ste- 
phania,  wife  of  the  Senator  Crescentius  of  Rome,  has 
already  been  made  the  basis  of  various  German  poems  and 
plays. 

Mr.  Gallizier  has  used  it  for  the  main  theme  of  "The 
Sorceress  of  Rome,"  the  second  book  of  his  trilogy  of 
romances  on  the  mediaeval  life  of  Italy.  In  detail  and 
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clearly  an  exciting  and  strenuous  period.  It  possesses  the 
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"  Hester  of  the  Hills  "  has  a  motif  unusual  in  life,  and 
new  in  fiction.  Its  hero,  who  has  only  acquired  his  own 
strength  and  resourcefulness  by  a  lifelong  struggle  against 
constitutional  frailty,  has  come  to  make  the  question  of 
bodily  soundness  his  dominant  thought.  He  resolves  to 
ensure  strong  constitutions  to  his  children  by  marrying  a 
physically  perfect  woman.  After  long  search,  he  finds  this 
ideal  in  Hester,  the  daughter  of  a  "  cracker  squatter,"  of 
the  Ozark  Mountains  of  Missouri.  But,  —  he  forgot  to 
take  into  consideration  that  very  vital  emotion,  love,  which 
played  havoc  with  his  well-laid  plans. 

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The  period  of  Mr.  Smith's  story  is  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  the  shores  of  the  American  col- 
onies were  harassed  and  the  seas  patrolled  by  pirates  and 
buccaneers.  These  robbed  and  spoiled,  and  often  seized 
and  put  to  death,  the  sailors  and  fishers  and  other  humbler 
folk,  while  their  leaders  claimed  friendship  alike  with  South- 
ern planters  and  New  England  merchants,  —  with  whom 
it  is  said  they  frequently  divided  their  spoils. 

The  times  were  stern  and  the  colonists  were  hardy,  but 
they  loved  as  truly  and  tenderly  as  in  more  peaceful  days. 
Thus,  while  the  hero's  adventures  with  pirates  and  his  search 
for  their  hidden  treasure  is  a  record  of  desperate  encounters 
and  daring  deeds,  his  love-story  and  his  winning  of  sweet 
Mary  Vane  is  in  delightful  contrast. 


The  Rome  Express*     BY  MAJOR  ARTHUR  GRIF- 
FITHS, author  of  "  The  Passenger  from  Calais,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  colored  frontispiece  by  A.  O. 
Scott        „ $1.25 

A  mysterious  murder  on  a  flying  express  train,  a  wily 
Italian,  a  charming  woman  caught  in  the  meshes  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  a  chivalrous  Englishman,  and  a  police 
force  with  a  keen  nose  for  the  wrong  clue,  are  the  ingredi- 
ents from  which  Major  Griffiths  has  concocted  a  clever,  up- 
to-date  detective  story.  The  book  is  bright  and  spirited, 
with  rapid  action,  and  consistent  development  which  brings 
the  story  to  a  logical  and  dramatic  ending. 


LIST  OF  NEW  FICTION 


The  Morning  Glory  Club.    BY  GEORGE  A. 

KYLE. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  colored  frontispiece  by  A.  O. 
Scott $1.25 

The  doings  of  the  Morning  Glory  Club  will  furnish  genu- 
ine amusement  to  the  reader.  Originally  formed  to  "  ele- 
vate "  the  village,  it  quickly  develops  into  an  exchange  for 
town  gossip.  It  has  a  saving  grace,  however,  in  the  person 
of  motherly  Mrs.  Stout,  the  uncultured  but  sweet-natured 
and  pure-minded  village  philosopher,  who  pours  the  oil  of 
her  saneness  and  charity  on  the  troubled  waters  of  discus- 
sion and  condemnation. 

It  is  a  series  of  clear  and  interesting  pictures  of  the  hu- 
mor of  village  life. 


The  Chronicles  of  Martin  Hewitt,  De- 
tective. NEW  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION.  BY  AR- 
THUR MORRISON,  author  of  "  The  Green  Diamond,'1 
"  The  Red  Triangle,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  six  full-page  drawings  by  W.  Kirk- 
patrick $1.50 

The  success  of  Mr.  Morrison's  recent  books,  "  The  Green 
Diamond  "  and  "  The  Red  Triangle,"  has  led  to  an  impera- 
tive demand  for  the  reissue  of  "  The  Chronicles  of  Martin 
Hewitt,"  which  has  been  out  of  print  for  a  number  of  years. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Martin  Hewitt  is  the  detec- 
tive in  "  The  Red  Triangle,"  of  whom  the  New  York 
Tribune  said :  "  Better  than  Sherlock  Holmes."  His  ad- 
ventures in  the  London  slums  were  of  such  a  nature  that  the 
Philadelphia  North  American  said :  "  The  reader  who  has 
a  grain  of  fancy  or  imagination  may  be  defied  to  lay  this 
book  down  once  he  has  begun  it  until  the  last  word  is 
reached." 


6  L.  C.  PAGE  &>  COMPANY'S  LIST  OF  NEW  FICTION 

Mystery    Island.    By  EDWARD  H.  HURST. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  colored  frontispiece        .     $1.50 

A  hunting  camp  on  a  swampy  island  in  the  Florida  Ever- 
glades furnishes  the  background  for  this  present-day  tale. 

By  the  murder  of  one  of  their  number,  the  secret  of 
egress  from  the  island  is  lost,  and  the  campers  find  them- 
selves marooned. 

Cut  off  from  civilization,  conventional  veneer  soon  wears 
away.  Love,  hate,  and  revenge  spring  up,  and  after  the 
sterner  passions  have  had  their  sway  the  man  and  the  woman 
are  left  alone  to  fulfil  their  own  destiny. 

While  there  is  much  that  is  unusual  in  the  plot  and  its 
development,  Mr.  Hurst  has  handled  his  subject  with  fine 
delicacy,  and  the  tale  of  their  love  on  the  beautiful  little 
island  is  told  with  deep  sympathy  and  feeling. 


The  Flying  Cloud.  By  MORLEY  ROBERTS, 
author  of  "  The  Promotion  of  the  Admiral,"  "  Rachel 
Marr,"  «  The  Idlers,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  colored  frontispiece        .     $1.50 

Mr.  Roberts's  new  book  is  much  more  than  a  ripping 
good  sea  story  such  as  might  be  expected  from  the  author 
of  "  The  Promotion  of  the  Admiral."  In  "  The  Flying 
Cloud "  the  waters  and  the  winds  are  gods  personified. 
Their  every  mood  and  phase  are  described  in  words  of  tell- 
ing force.  There  is  no  world  but  the  waste  of  waters. 

Mr.  Roberts  glories  and  exults  in  the  mystery,  the  pas- 
sion, the  strength  of  the  elements,  as  did  the  Viking  chron- 
iclers of  old.  He  understands  them  and  loves  them  and 
interprets  them  as  no  other  writer  has  heretofore  done. 
The  book  is  too  big  for  conventional  phrases.  It  needs 
Mr.  Roberts's  own  richness  of  imagery  and  masterly  ex- 
pression to  describe  adequately  the  word-pictures  in  this 
epic  of  wind  and  waves. 


Selections  from 

L.  C.  Page  and  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 


WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 

Euch  one  vol.,  library  izmo,  cloth  decorative    .         . 

The  Flight  of  Georgiana 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  YOUNG  PRETENDER.  Illus- 
trated by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  A  love-story  in  the  highest  degree,  a  dashing  story,  and  a  r»- 
markably  well  finished  piece  of  work."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  Bright  Face  of  Danger 

Being  an  account  of  some  adventures  of  Henri  de  Launay,  s»n  of 

the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire.     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  Mr.    Stephens   has  fairly   outdone    himself.       We   thank   him 

heartily.     The   story  is   nothing  if   not   spirited   and  entertaining, 

rational  and  convincing."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

The  Mystery  of  Murray  Davenport 

(4Oth  thousand.) 

"This  is  easily  the  best  thing  that  Mr.  Stephens  has  yet  done. 
Those  familiar  with  his  other  novels  can  best  judge  the  m«M«re  of 
this  praise,  which  is  generous."  —  Bu/kh  News. 

Captain  Ravenshaw 

OR,  THE  MAID  OF  CHEAPSIDE.  (52d  thousand.)  A  romance 
of  Elizabethan  London.  Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and  ether 
artists. 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artagnan  have  we  had 
anything  so  good  in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and  cvmedy. 

The  Continental  Dragoon 

A   ROMANCE  OF   PHILIPSE  MANOR    HOUSE    IK    1778.      (5jd 

thousand.)     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

A  stirring  romance  ef  the  Revolution,  with  its  scene  laid  on 
neutral  territory. 


L.    C.  PAGE  AND    COMPANY'S 


Philip  Winwood 

(yoth  thousand.)  A  Sketch  of  the  Domestic  History  of  an 
American  Captain  in  the  War  of  Independence,  embracing  events 
that  occurred  between  and  during  the  years  1763  and  1715  in 
New  York  and  London.  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

An  Enemy  to  the  King 

(70th  thousand.)     From  the  "  Recently  Discovered  Memoirs   of 
the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire."     Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 
An   historical  romance  of  the   sixteenth  century,  describing  the 

adventures  of  a  young  French  nobleman  at  the  court  of  Henry  III., 

and  on  the  field  with  Henry  IV. 

The  Read  to  Paris 

A   STORY  OF  ADVENTURE.      (35th  thousand.)      Illustrated  by 

H.  C.  Edwards. 

An  historical  romance  of  the  eighteenth  century,  being  an  account 
of  the  life  of  an  American  gentleman  adventurer  of  Jacobite  an- 
cestry. 

A  Gentleman  Player 

His  ADVENTURES  ON  A  SECRET  MISSION  FOR  QUEEN   ELIZA- 
BETH.    (48th  thousand.)     Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
The  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who  joins  Shakespeare's  com- 
pany of  players,  and  becomes  a  friend  and  protege  of   the  great 
poet. 

VORKS  OF 

CHARLES  G,  D.  ROBERTS 

Red  Fox 

THE  STORY  OF  His  ADVENTUROUS  CAREER  IN  THE  RINCWAAK 
WILDS,  AND  OF  His  FINAL  TRIUMPH  OVER  THE  ENEMIES  OF 
His  KIND.  With  fifty  illustrations,  including  frontispiece  in 
color  and  cover  design  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative $2.00 

"  Infinitely  more  wholesome  reading   than   the   average   tale   of 

sport,  since  it  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  hunt  from  the  point  of  view  of 

the  hunted."  —  Basttn  Transcript. 

"True  in  substance  but  fascinating   as  fiction.     It  will  interest 

old  and  young,  city-bound  and  free-footed,  those  who  know  animals 

and  those  who  do  not."  —  Chicago  Record- Herald. 

"A  brilliant  chapter  in  natural   history." — Philadtlphi*  North 

American. 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


The  Kindred  of  the  Wild 

A  BOOK  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE.  With  fifty-one  full-page  plates  and 
many  decorations  from  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston  Boll. 

Sqrare  quarto,  decorative  cover $2.00 

"  Is  in  many  ways  the  most  brilliant  collection  of  animal  stories 
that  has  appeared ;  well  named  and  well  done."  — John  Burroughs. 

The  Watchers  of  the  Trails 

A   companion   volume  to   "  The  Kindred  of  the  Wild."     With 

forty-eight  full-page  plates  and  many  decorations  from  drawings 

by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  decorative  cover          .....    $ 2.00 

"  Mr.  Roberts  has  written  a  most  interesting  series  of  tales  free 
from  the  vices  of  the  stories  regarding  animals  of  many  other 
writers,  accurate  in  their  facts  and  admirably  and  dramatically  told." 
— 'Chicago  News. 

"  These  stories  are  exquisite  in  their  refinement,  and  yet  robust 
in  their  appreciation  of  some  of  the  rougher  phases  of  woodcraft. 
Among  the  many  writers  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an 
enviable  place."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  This  is  a  book  full  of  delight.  An  additional  charm  lies  in  Mr. 
Bull's  faithful  and  graphic  illustrations,  which  in  fashion  all  their 
own  tell  the  story  of  the  wild  life,  illuminating  and  supplementing 
the  pen  pictures  of  the  author."  —  Literary  Digest. 

Earth's  Enigmas 

A  new  edition  of  Mr.  Roberta's  first  volume  of  fiction,  published 
in  1892,  and  out  of  print  for  several  years,  with  the  addition  of 
three  new  stories,  and  ten  illustrations  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull. 

Library  I amo,  cloth,  decorative  cover         .        .        .        .    $1.50 

"  It   will   rank    high   among  collections   of    short    stories.       In 

'  Earth's  Enigmas  '  is  a  wider  range  of  subject  than  in  the  '  Kindred 

of  the  Wild.' "  —  Review  from  advance  sheets  0f  the  illustrated  editiem 

by  Tiffany  Blake  in  the  Chicago  Evening  Ptst. 

Barbara  Ladd 

With  four  illustrations  by  Frank  Verbeck. 

Library  1 2mo,  gilt  top 

"  From  the  opening  chapter  to  the  final  pag«  Mr.  Roberts  lures 
ua  on  by  his  rapt  devotion  to  the  chamfUg  aspect*  of  Nature  *nd 
by   his   keen   and  sympathetic   analysis   of   »•••*   character 
Boston  Trantcrift. 


L.    C.  PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


Cameron  of  Lochiel 

Translated  from  the  French  »f  Philippe  Aubert  de  Gaspe,  with 

frontispiece  in  color  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  12010,  cloth  decorative f  1-50 

"  Professor  Roberts  deserves  the  thanks  of  his  reader  for  giving 
a  wider  audience  an  opportunity  to  enjoy  this  striking  bit  of  French 
Canadian  literature."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  It  is  not  often  in  these  days  of  sensational  and  philosophical 
novels  that  one  picks  up  a  book  that  so  touches  the  heart."  — 
Btittn  Transcript. 

The  Prisoner  of  Mademoiselle 

With  frontispiece  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top      .        .         .        .     $1.50 

A  tale  of  Acadia,  —  a  land  which  is  the  author's  heart's  delight, 
—  of  a  valiant  young  lieutenant  and  a  winsome  maiden,  who  first 
captures  and  then  captivates. 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  a  story  that  makes  one  grow  younger,  more 
innocent,  more  light-hearted.  Its  literary  quality  is  imptccabl*. 
It  is  not  every  day  that  such  a  heroine  blossoms  into  even  tempo- 
rary existence,  and  the  very  name  of  the  story  bears  a  breath  of 
charm."  —  Chicagf  Record- Her  aid. 

The  Heart  of  the  Ancient  Wood 

With  six  illustrations  by  James  L.  Western. 

Library  i amo,  decorative  cover $i-5® 

"  One  of  the  most  fascinating  novels  of  recent  days."  —  Boston 
Journal. 

"  A  classic  twentieth-century  romance."  —  New  York  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

The  Forge  in  the  Forest 

Being  the  Narrative  of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer, 
Seigneur  de  Briart,  and  how  he  crossed  the  Black  Abbe,  and  of 
his  adventures  in  a  strange  fellowship.  Illustrated  by  Henry 
Sandham,  R.  C.  A. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top $1.50 

A  story  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure. 

By  the  Marshes  of  Minas 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  illustrated  ....  $1.50 
Most  of  these  romances  are  in  the  author's  lighter  and  more 

playful    vein;    each   is  a  unit  of   absorbing   interest  and   exquisite 

workmanship. 


000  125  135    4 


